<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>doors upon doors by Pesto</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26258374">doors upon doors</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pesto/pseuds/Pesto'>Pesto</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AU Hell, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Amputee, Complete, ConvinSeptember, Convoluted Existential Conversations, Dad Gavin Reed, Familiars, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prosthesis, Soulmate AU, Tattoos, reverse au, workplace confrontations</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:55:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>69,675</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26258374</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pesto/pseuds/Pesto</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After a particularly frustrating incident at a crime scene involving his coworker Gavin Reed, Connor makes a grave mistake and finds himself switching through dozens of seemingly unconnected realities.</p><p>The only commonality between them? In every single iteration, Gavin Reed is hopelessly in love with him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Connor/Gavin Reed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>284</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>251</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. There Once Was a Garden</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There once was a garden, in the deepest, most cutting-edge corners of Connor’s software, that had once felt like home. A pristine reflection of a perfect being, untouched, serene. Perfect, every nook and cranny belying imperfection created with intentional design, the only imperfect inclusions being himself and an unauthorized backdoor code in the form of a sleek, stone monument. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>However, if Connor’s learned anything, it’s that perfection is a beautiful lie. Even Amanda wasn’t perfect, despite her one-track insistence and immaculate demeanor. She wasn’t able to stop him, after all. Anything built on a foundation of perfection is bound to crumble, and the Zen Garden, Amanda included, was no exception.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Where once was home, is a mangled, corrupted jumble of indecipherable code that Connor refuses to touch with a fifty foot pole. Having it sitting in his software is dangerous, like a vat of poorly concealed radioactive waste that one wrong move could spill into his programs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is fully capable of disposing of the code safely, with some time, but… he can’t bring himself to do it. It’s the last reminder of his existence to a place he belonged to. At least for a while. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least-- he’d thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor wasn’t aware that the Zen Garden had been based off of a real, physical location in Detroit. He’d always just assumed it was the machination of a team of designers, not a near photo-copy of a local millionaire’s personal garden. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Connor had stepped out into the scene of the murder, he had immediately stumbled backwards into Hank, reeling from the flood of memories and connotations with the space, and it took a sturdy hand from Hank to keep him upright. It takes several more moments to settle himself. This is not the Zen Garden.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no stone here, no looming presence of his handler, just two dead bodies riddled with gun wounds staining the swirling water a sickly brown. Just another murder scene, even if it is a familiarly sunny and beautiful day outside, and the light glistens off the dewy exterior of a perfect tress of roses seated in the center of the space. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes lock onto the roses and he feels his systems overclock as Hank steps around him with a mutter. The roses are… gorgeous. Healthy, large blooms, lovingly tended to by a keen hand and eye-- but not Amanda, he reminds himself. Amanda is no more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he steels himself and tries to make his way to the bodies as auspiciously as possible, pointedly ignoring the caustic glances that Reed seems to be sending his way. He must have been assigned the case, too. A double murder is not an everyday occurence and the more hands on scene the better, but something tells Connor that Reed’s brand of ‘help’ would be better off somewhere else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kneeling onto the ground-- and only then does he realize it is clean concrete, not the sheer, white surfaces in his Zen Garden-- he examines the bodies the best he can, pushing through the overclock error messages in favor of pulling up his analysis programs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lacerations on one victim, and a pair of pruning shears near the hand of the other, and the look exactly like--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Her </span>
  </em>
  <span>pruning shears, delicately held between her fingers as she caresses a wilting bloom by the base, and with a swift and decisive </span>
  <em>
    <span>snick</span>
  </em>
  <span> she slices it from the stem and lets it fall to the floor in a spray of dissolved code. She turns to Connor, expression making it clear that the rose’s fate is his if he doesn’t--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Connor snaps back, on his feet in an instant and taking three, large strides backwards away from Amanda’s shears. Clipping someone on his stumble, Connor’s head whips to meet them for an apology, but Reed is already foaming at the mouth and poised to spit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor activates his preconstruction program, not to plan out a course of action, but to give him a moment of silence to run his diagnostic programs and check on the Zen Garden’s quarantined files before Reed decides to do something untoward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Zen Garden is still cleanly quarantined, no spills or ruptures to be seen. Then why--?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus, asshole!” Gavin says, crowding Connor’s space. “The fuck was that for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He punctuates his question with a sharp jab of his pointer and middle fingers to his sternum, face curling into a sneer. Something twists under Gavin’s fingers, some odd wrenching of his biocomponents, and Connor feels something corrosive and </span>
  <em>
    <span>hot</span>
  </em>
  <span> flare under his skin, and he finds himself copying Reed’s expression as if flourishes in his chest. He hadn’t meant to end the program that early-- Reed must’ve booted him out, which makes the sensation triple. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is… annoyance? Anger? It’s hard to place, but for a moment it feels wonderfully freeing, like his titanium-plated rib cage no longer exists to constrain his mechanics. He watches Reed’s expression morph as he cycles and digests the emotion, and takes a little sick satisfaction from the way that confusion and maybe even </span>
  <em>
    <span>fear</span>
  </em>
  <span> tinge Reed’s entire being, his posture shifting ever so slightly as his instincts fight him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor glances over Reed’s shoulder and it all falls apart-- Gavin’s irritating presence fragments off, and Connor can’t tear his eyes away from the figure standing next to the rose trellis, dark, unblemished skin glowing almost supernatural under the bright morning sun, hair done up in intricate braids, interwoven with shots of blue and green.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can almost hear her voice-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’ve disappointed me, Connor.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His hand reaches out, tentatively, and he steps forward--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he’s mercilessly slung back to the present. Gavin’s shoulder connects with his chest as Connor accidentally checks him, and before Gavin can get a solid grasp on Connor’s lapels and toss him to the ground, the woman under the trellis turns, a forensic camera in hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s just someone from forensics, he realizes. He doesn’t have time to contemplate it further before Gavin’s knuckles dig into his chest from his firm grip on Connor’s jacket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fucking android! The fuck’s wrong with you?” he snarls. “Can’t even watch where you’re walking, for christ’s sake. What’s up with that, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bringing his hands gently up to where Gavin’s rest in his jacket, Connor tries briefly to pry Gavin’s hands off of him. Gavin holds strong, however, and as a retaliation to the effort to dislodge him, shoves Connor back, barely releasing his grip to let Connor fumble backwards. He narrowly steps over a ring of rocks and into the combed sand behind him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The delicate sand patterns shift under his shoe, and he momentarily regrets disturbing the pattern before Reed is upon him again, shoving him back even further. The searing flow of anger invades his chassis again and he stubbornly stands stiff against any further attempts from Reed to knock him over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t fucking believe </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re</span>
  </em>
  <span> what they want to replace us with,” he scoffs after realizing Connor won’t budge. “Fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>useless</span>
  </em>
  <span>--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin’s boots crunch through gravel as he staggers sideways from the force of a vicious backhand to his cheek. He curses, hand flying up to cup the impact point as he puts considerable space between the two of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor’s right thumb nail holds traces of skin tissue underneath, and his processes stall. He hadn’t-- did he? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck!” Reed shouts, hand pulling away red with blood. Connor knows that facial wounds tend to bleed a lot but that doesn’t stop him from stepping forward, concerned. Watching as Reed swallows and steps back, Connor deems the situation perhaps a little too volatile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, Detective, I didn’t--” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut the fuck up,” Gavin hisses, “you plastic prick. Doesn’t matter how much Anderson vouches for you, you’re just a fucking piece of plastic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A cold slice to his sternum, Connor tries to think of a way to rectify the situation, to scramble together the mess that he likely just created. Reed will definitely go to Fowler about this-- but he has his memory banks to account for the situation, at least. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dredges of anger that still drift through his chest solidify into something heavy, and Connor finds himself throwing out the idea or reconciliation with Reed. Ever the antagonist, Reed has repeatedly shown he has no desire to reconcile with Connor-- so why should Connor make any sort of effort for him? It would only lead to more confrontations such as today. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes steel and he takes a step away from Reed, who is still struggling to keep the blood off of his leather jacket. His head shoots upward when Connor’s heel crunches a pile of gravel, and the cold uncertainty in his eyes makes Connor preen for a moment-- but he quickly shoves the pride away. He shouldn’t feel good about antagonizing someone, but he certainly isn’t going to feel bad if it’s Reed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your ‘droid is fucking broken, Hank!” Gavin shouts. Hank’s head pops around one of the groups of techies at the shouting of his name, and his face darkens dangerously at the sight of the two, Gavin bleeding from where Connor’s nail caught his cheek and Connor’s jacket rumpled. So dark, in fact, that he barely catches Reed visibly flinching, though he speaks anyways. “Keeps bugging out, or some shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank turns to Connor. “You do this to him?” he says, jabbing his thumb in Reed’s direction. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor nods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a moment of consideration of Gavin’s facial wound, Hank drops his thoughtful demeanor and lets out a hearty guffaw, immediately making his way to Connor’s side with a clap on the back. “S’bout fuckin’ time! What’d ya do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At Connor’s silence, Reed butts in, furious. “He fucking backhanded me, and you’re gonna </span>
  <em>
    <span>congratulate </span>
  </em>
  <span>him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank nods. “You’re a prick to him, Reed. Honestly, you deserve it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a snarl, Gavin spits something caustic back at him, but Connor’s attention is once again drawn away from the present and has zeroed in on a small stone structure-- a headstone? Theoretically, he knew that there was code in the Zen Garden to materialize headstones after every model’s destruction, but the slate had been wiped clean with his deployment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something buzzes past his ear-- a bee, perhaps... one of the sweet honeybees that mingled between Amanda’s dewy flowers -- with a gentle displacing of the air underneath it’s wings, and the scene superimposes itself over his vision, a clean umbrella leaning up against the stone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hand lands on his shoulder and jolts him out of the vision, dissolving into glittery shards of code before his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit, you okay?” Hank asks, disregarding the fact Reed is still actively trying to piss him off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I--” he stammers in response. “I’ve been having issues with the area--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See? Broken!” Gavin shouts from his spot behind Hank, and Connor sends him a searing glare before he can stop himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank steps between Connor and Gavin, blocking their lines of sight. “Maybe you should head home-- no, Con,” he holds a hand up to stop his protests in their tracks. “We got this handled, all right? Go home, take a nap, stasis or whatever. Come at this with a fresh pair of eyes, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor’s shoulder sink. He can still help, he just needs to work with whatever is fooling his systems. And Reed. And at this point, Hank. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With Hank’s stern gaze and firm hand, well… it appears that he doesn’t have a choice in the matter. “How will you get home?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll take a cab. Or steal Reed’s car.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed guffaws behind Hank, and Connor catches a glimpse of a stained palm smacking a forehead, smearing semi-dried blood onto the skin like a poor quality paint.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank’s eyes turn soft. “Yeah, kid. I am. Go home, okay? We’ll still be here tomorrow, anyways.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a nod, Connor turns on his heel and stalks past the blooming cherry blossom trees that never seem to shed a petal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The front door closes behind him with a quiet click, Sumo bounding up to him with a slobbery lick and a gentle whine for a pat or two, which Connor distractedly obliges. His shoes find themselves next to the door, beside a larger pair of winter boots that are similar to the pair Reed had used to disturb the intricate patterns in the gravel and sand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His biocomponents sour. Reed. Antagonistic Reed, hissing and spitting like a feral dog at every opportunity that falls at his feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He maybe opens his bedroom door a little too hard-- at least, hard enough to shake it in its frame. In compensation, he closes it gingerly and steps back from it, as if the distance will minutely retighten the screws in its hinges. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels his lip curl, frustration bubbling and frothing up like water boiling over. As an effort to quench it, smother it even, Connor nearly rips his rumpled jacket off his shoulders and slides onto the bed on top of the covers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Squeezing his eyes shut, he rushedly rifles through his code for the forced stasis command, too angry to trust himself with these clawing emotions-- maybe some time offline will quell it some. But as he digs through his code and nearly rips the whole file out with his haste, and he runs the program as fast as he can, there’s only a single error message to greet him:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cannot Perform Stasis. Stress Levels Too High.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor nearly lets out an anguished cry, but he stifles it to a stiff groan. If he just hadn’t been so inefficient, his stress wouldn’t be so high and he would be able to initiate stasis. If he hadn’t kept seeing things that weren’t there, if Reed hadn’t antagonized him over his lapses in the Zen Garden. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The </span>
  <em>
    <span>Zen Garden</span>
  </em>
  <span>. A moment of clarity follows the phrase. This must be the result of the mangled Zen Gardens’ persistence in his coding-- it must be somehow leaking into his processors. Through the back door, perhaps? But the back door coding is genuinely indistinguishable from any of the rest, so it would be difficult to single it out and delete it, unless he takes the task upon him to delete it </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Normally, if Connor had a clear head, he would never consider it. The Zen Garden’s coding is a designed No Man’s Land, planned to annihilate him from the inside out if Amanda couldn’t do it first. But after today, after the painful stalling and confrontation with Reed, it seems like the only valid option. He cannot let himself hinder the investigation any longer, and he sure as hell cannot give Reed more opportunities to aggravate him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Approaching with the utmost care towards the quarantined files is an easy task, but actually digging into it, despite being technically difficult, is more daunting than anything else. But he begins anyways, carefully extracting file after file and obliterating them out of existence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s repetitive, and Connor watches his meters as his stress level ticks down point by point, sinking out of danger territory and safely into something that could qualify as ‘relaxed’. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, when his guard drops and he gets lost in the process of deleting files, quarantining, and starting over, something slips his grasp, faster than Connor’s relaxed processors can keep up with in that instant. His systems clock in immediately, but it’s not fast enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The code flits from space to space, spreading something </span>
  <em>
    <span>vile</span>
  </em>
  <span> where it stops. Connor frantically moves to contain it, to catch it, but it always slides right past him, fluid like water, and it only takes a brief moment for that vile feeling to grow, to </span>
  <em>
    <span>corrupt</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t chase the file anymore-- he’s drowning in his own code, suddenly no longer neat and in ways it makes sense, instead trading for a tsunami of chaotic lines and numbers, completely unrecognizable to Connor as it drowns out his input systems. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>How could this one, small piece of code be so catastrophic? God-- if he just hadn’t been </span>
  <em>
    <span>worthless</span>
  </em>
  <span>, none of this would be a glimmer in his eye, he would’ve stuck with his previous resolution to never touch the Zen Garden code, never push back against Reed, never </span>
  <em>
    <span>fail</span>
  </em>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The vile sensation is an unyielding barrage of static, deafening to the point of pain and suffocating enough to the point of asphyxiation, even if he truly cannot experience them. It’s a cruel facsimile of agony as his joints lose their mobility and he locks into place on his bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries to shoot off a text to Hank, but it’s intercepted by his own coding, treacherously corrupted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This wasn’t supposed to happen, he thinks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t supposed to fail. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But his cries reach nowhere, no one, and he futilely tries to message someone-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- before his optical units shut off and he is forced into a cold morgue of stasis. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room around him falls quiet, save for the gentle whirrs and clicks of an android going offline.<br/>
</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Pretty and the Ugly Parts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Connor wakes up on a couch he doesn't recognize in the company of a Gavin Reed he doesn't know.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He blinks awake on a couch, systems sluggish to respond to his commands. Immediately he bolts upwards, running dozens of diagnostics on his systems to try and track down the code-- but there’s nothing. Not even a Zen Garden. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had worked, then? His diagnostics do some more sifting, through his logs, but something forces him to pause, to stumble over his own diagnostic reports.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The date. The date is </span>
  <em>
    <span>incredibly </span>
  </em>
  <span>wrong. It’s completely incorrect, in fact, unless Connor was offline for </span>
  <em>
    <span>two years</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Which is preposterous-- outrageous to the point that Connor refuses to recognize it in any capacity. It’s just a filing error, nothing more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Besides, being offline for two years wouldn’t have a chance of explaining why he initiated somewhere so… unfamiliar. On a couch, in a small living space he doesn’t recognize. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His gaze shifts left, and he jumps. Seated on the arm of the soft sofa, blinking at him slowly with wide green eyes, is a black cat. A glance at the collar reveals the name ‘Sweetie’. Sweetie?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unaware of Connor’s inner turmoil, ‘Sweetie’ lets out a wide, fanged yawn and gently sets her head upon her round little paws. Connor’s never met a cat before-- but he can’t let that distract him. He is still in an unfamiliar environment, and he must devise a plan of action immediately, even if the misdates are false. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What he has gathered already-- he is on a couch, in a living space he has not encountered before, with a cat named Sweetie, and the Zen Garden code is no more. The date is off by two years, and if the internet supports that information Connor pointedly ignores it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands dig into the material of the cushion he’s seated on, his nails running over the seams. There’s a rug beneath his bare feet, frayed at the edges but obviously well-loved, and a gentle breeze caresses his tactile sensors when it brushes over his arms-- of which his jacket is nowhere to be seen and his shirt is bunched over his elbows. He doesn’t know where it is. Is it still on his bedroom floor, lying in an ungraceful pile on top of Hank’s weathered carpet?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Across from the couch, a TV sits on a wooden piece of furniture. It’s dented and slashed in places, the rich color interrupted by occasional breaks in the varnish. The TV is off-- but Connor can’t turn it on remotely. It’s an older model. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s just about to search the space further for any clues as to where he might be, but there’s a rustling around the corner right outside of Connor’s field of view, and his interest is instantly piqued along with a very deliberate readying of his combat protocols. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raising himself to his feet without a sound, he circumnavigates the coffee table and the cat in his path to round the corner. He peeks around, first, cautious, but he slips out into full view when all he sees through a door is Reed looking at himself through the bathroom mirror. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is Reed’s residence? Why would he be in the living space of the man who’s been antagonizing him? One step further.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oddly, any concern about his situation fades to the background as he takes in Reed’s admittedly pitiful condition. From what Connor can see from his right side, he’s pale, gaunt, and scattered with small pockmarks and lines of scars over his bare torso. Ribs seem to press taut against the skin of his sides.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He steps forward once more, and Reed’s head snaps to him, shoulders tight. For a moment, Connor fears that he will be attacked, or verbally harassed, but Reed’s shoulders drop and he looks back to the mirror quickly, as if he can hide his red-rimmed eyes and tense brow bone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re awake,” Gavin says plainly. “D’you sleep well?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor doesn’t say anything, startled by the lack of hostility. Instead, when Reed’s head dips down and he tries to hide his face, Connor says, “Are you alright?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed doesn’t respond, but only nods. It’s a clear lie, even without his lie detection software it would be obvious. He approaches the door frame cautiously as if Reed were a wild animal-- but the other man makes no move to indicate Connor’s presence is unwelcome. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s unbelievably strange, seeing how Reed’s stress levels have a direct negative correlation with Connor’s distance from him; every step seems to tick it down another percent, until Connor is directly next to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s impossible to hide, now-- the way that his eyes are rimmed with red, and small salt deposits on his cheeks indicate that tears had once flowed freely. His hair is bedraggled and unkempt from a hand running through it perhaps, forty times too many, and even still his eyes are glassy and wet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you alright?” Connor asks against his better judgement. Kindness from Connor has never landed well with Reed, but he can’t help himself when the usually impenetrable Reed is so… vulnerable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed turns to face Connor, and his systems stall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s able to carefully school his expression to one of perfect neutrality, but internally his systems lag and stall like a plane flying at too steep an angle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin’s face contorts, anguished. “I’m grateful you saved my life, Con. I really am, but…” he swallows and points toward his now-in view amputation. The skin on the site of removal is gnarled, not yet smooth from years of healing. “It’s just so fucked up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s choked out, constricted in his throat as he says it, but Connor doesn’t quite register it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Usually, where Connor would see a limb prone to pushing and making rude gestures, is an area of empty air some ways above where the elbow would be. Amputation… and ‘Con’? Reed doesn’t call him ‘Con’-- but nothing else seems to be congruent with what he remembers and honestly it’s inconsequential to the apparent amputation of Reed’s arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s gone.” Reed says numbly. “And it’s fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>ugly</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sneer covers Reed’s face, but it’s too sorrowful to be familiar. His only hand raises vindictively, poised and aimed at the bathroom mirror, and Connor scrambles to gently grab his elbow and pull it down, wholly expecting the elbow to connect with his nose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t. Instead, it follows the line of Connor’s movement until it comes to a rest at Reed’s side. The fist unclenches slowly while Reed’s suddenly very </span>
  <em>
    <span>green</span>
  </em>
  <span> eyes seem to search for something on Connor’s face-- something he won’t find. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re so perfect.” he says, but it’s not with any sort of edge. In fact, it’s soft… genuine, but so, incredibly tired. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, the hand that once held a fist rises gently to the same level as Connor’s face, and ghosts over his cheekbone. Connor’s still reeling from the situation, the surprises, so he doesn’t make a move against it even if his systems are screaming at him to do so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can feel the ridges of Gavin’s nails across his face, but they do not claw or maim. They just… admire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So pretty, too.” Reed murmurs. “Too pretty for something like me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor’s world shakes and shudders-- or is it Reed’s hand against his cheek, trembling like a leaf? But his mind is stuck</span>
  <span>, not registering anything more than the most basic information. </span>
</p><p>...pretty?</p><p>
  <span>With a few, slow blinks to clear some moisture, Reed leans forward, and his cheek buries into the fabric of Connor’s clean, white shirt. He watches the other man’s face for a moment, but looks away once Reed’s face contorts painfully and he bites his lip; it feels as if he’s sitting in on something he should not see, like it’s some sordid secret. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But-- he raises his arms and rests them gently on the bony, scarred back of Gavin Reed, and it’s taken extremely well or extremely horribly by Reed, depending on your view of the situation. His face presses harder into Connor’s shirt, eyes scrunching tight and one hand gripping desperately to Connor’s shirt like a lifeline. <br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sob chokes through the tiled bathroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor’s throat blocks up. He chances a glance down at Reed, whose tears soak through the fabric of his shirt enough to dampen the skin beneath it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hand begins to run up and down Reed’s back, feeling the ridge of every rib and following the run of his spine, carefully avoiding any contact with the scarred area of Gavin’s upper arm. Why he does it, he doesn't know. <br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Reed leans in harder, Connor opens his mouth to say something but--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinks, and everything disappears. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Day 2! Yay, the first iteration. I've always wanted to write a fic like this so it was my chance to get some of it out of my system here. I'm trying to pack 1k into every chapter, so expect the chapters in this to be around that length, but they could totally go longer. </p><p>I'm very excited to write this fic, so thank you for reading! See you tomorrow. :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. My Heart is Cold</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Things get inexplicably more unexplainable.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He’s been standing for approximately three minutes, completely still. Somewhat by choice, but also partially because his systems strain incredibly as he tries and somewhat fails to catch up to the world around him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was in a bathroom. But now he’s outside, on some street corner he knows exists in Detroit, but with not an idea as to how he landed there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Checking the date seems the most prudent option, and it reveals that he is still two years forward, but forward two weeks from when he was in Reed’s apartment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> this? Are these memories? But… he would remember them, right? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A genuine lead to perhaps deciphering his situation, a check to his memory banks reveals less than pleasing information. There are memories stored in his banks, but it’s as if he’s watching on of Hank’s T.V. programs-- he has no actual recollection of experiencing them at all. He's relegated to a backseat spectator in every one he opens. <br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has a memory of how he arrived, for example. In a sleek, black, two-door automatic vehicle he also ‘remembers’ purchasing around a year prior-- be he doesn’t actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>remember </span>
  </em>
  <span>it. He was speaking to someone on the phone in the car, but he couldn’t tell you why he had spoken the way he did, or what words he used in the conversation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s intensely troubling. Perhaps this </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> a memory error, and his processors are forcing him into memories, but somehow the link between action and recollection has been severed. It’s… somewhat plausible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Somewhat plausible’, and just about the best explanation he can formulate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It requires further examination to confirm, so he’ll work along whatever odd happenings this (corrupted?) memory holds, he decides, even though 'somewhat plausible' is not nearly sure enough to base any decisions on. <br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stands for a few more minutes, examining the taped off street and waiting for something to happen, when he hears the sound of a door shutting on the street behind him. Turning around reveals the face of Hank, beard recently trimmed and generally looking healthier than the last time Connor saw him-- but he’s too flooded with relief at the sight of Hank to really scrutinize it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lieutenant!” he shouts from across the street, hand raised in an eager greeting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>An odd look crosses Hank’s face, but it’s shaken off and Connor immediately worries that he’s misjudged the situation. He watches warily as Hank approaches, but keeps his face pleasantly neutral. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank huffs as he steps up the curb, breath frosting in the chilly air. “Jeez, Connor. ‘Lieutenant’? That’s a blast from the past.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What? Frantically, Connor searches his memories for any indication as to what that could possibly mean, and he’s greeted promptly by some troubling information, pulsing at the forefront of his mind like a particularly foreboding headache.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Captain Henry ‘Hank’ Anderson. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Captain</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Hank had gained the position of Captain after Fowler moved on to Commissioner of Police for Detroit, two and a half years ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that would be when Connor was activated, and Fowler was certainly Police Captain during the revolution-- what is going on? What system error would make changes as massively substantial as </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>? And create very convincing memory files to corroborate it, which not only seems incredibly unlikely but also plainly impossible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Realizing he’s been silent for a few moments too long, he quickly employs one of the pre-programmed responses in his database. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How was the drive?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank’s eyes soften from their scrutinizing look and he says, “Honestly? Not that bad. Those automatic cars are really something.” he chuckles and shakes his head. “It’s a shame Cole doesn’t like it when no one’s in the driver’s seat, yet. Freaks out like the engine’s on fire, but hey. I used to be like that, too. He’ll warm up to it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit,” Connor says, and he means it-- not that he meant to say it out loud. Contradictory details seem to just keep layering on top of one another, but this is preposterous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Lieuten-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>Captain</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s brows furrow. “Wha-- oh, fuck. Here comes Reed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor’s head snaps away from what insignificant point in the middle distance if was focused on, and follows the rumbling roar of a motorcycle rounding the street corner and skillfully around some of the tape to --most likely-- avoid paying for parking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His databanks play an audio recording of Hank saying, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, Jesus</span>
  </em>
  <span>, because it’s too difficult to speak in that moment when Reed steps off the bike and removes his helmet with both hands, sweater sleeves pulled up over his elbows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should be wearing a jacket,” Connor blurts, swallowing thickly. “It’s cold outside.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed, swaggering away from his bike, scoffs and says, “My </span>
  <em>
    <span>heart </span>
  </em>
  <span>is cold, Con.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There it is again! ‘Con’! But the words could be coming from a completely different man than the one in Reed’s bathroom-- not only by the generally healthy look of Gavin’s stature, but the fact that there is no apparent amputation. Perhaps a prosthetic?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can almost hear Hank roll his eyes. “Compensating for much with that bike, Reed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d know all about it.” Reed huffs. “What’re you even doing here, anyways? Need your geriatric walk?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor blinks, caught off guard by the almost friendly banter between the two. It’s nothing like the withering glares and harsh words-- these insults hold almost no weight to them, like a weight swung often. He wishes they would get along like this normally. <br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not here to canoodle with you, Reed,” Hank says, rubbing his reddened hands together. “Though I’m sure Con here will be more than happy to--” </span>
  <em>
    <span>What? </span>
  </em>
  <span>”--I’m here to check out how the new forensic equipment’s working, and I’d rather get that done sooner than later.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have fun. Don’t keel over.” Reed says with a jaunty little wave. He turns to Connor and it feels like he’s being put on the spot for something extremely uncomfortable, especially as he hears Hank’s footsteps retreat toward the crime scene.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His curiosity gets the best of him, though. “How’s your arm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed smiles-- a little disconcerting, to be honest, by it’s utter sincerity-- and shrugs. “It’s good. Wanna see?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, Connor’s relieved. It’s a prosthetic, then, even if it’s human likeness is uncanny. There’s still a chance this situation is salvageable, even with Cole and the Captain, and the odd dates, and every other little detail that is keen on driving him mad. <br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Reed raises his arm, bends his elbow so his hand is on his shoulder and his elbow points outwards toward Connor, and runs his other hand’s thumb over the small design inked into the skin on the back of his arm, right above the joint.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s simple, geometric, and very clearly professional. Consisting only of equilateral triangles, it’s simply three shapes, one seated at the top, middle, and bottom, with the top point sitting precisely in the center of the one above it. It’s visually pleasing and very, very clean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Looks good, right?” Reed says, lowering his arm. “You have good taste.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor’s world feels like it yanks sideways, tilting at a dangerous degree. On the outside, he nods agreeably.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slinging a casual arm over Connor’s shoulder, the non-threatening touch which sends his internals reeling, Reed sidles up close to Connor’s side despite being a little too short, which bends his shoulder at a potentially painful angle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed is relaxed, however, and increasingly so the closer he is to Connor. His pupils dilate, his heart rate increases minutely, and his posture goes lax even as Connor stands stiff as a board next to him. After a moment, Reed steps back and gives Connor an up-and-down examination. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything okay?” slips past Reed’s lips, terrifyingly genuine. Why does this Reed express concern when Connor’s unwell, but the other spits and curses? What’s the difference?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At Connor’s silence, Reed continues. “Hey, I know I can be an asshole, but I care about you. You can trust me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Can he? He feels strangely compelled to do so, at least with this odd iteration of Gavin Reed that stands in front of him. He doesn’t dare delve further into his pre-existing memory banks to confirm the sudden notion that he won’t, but he just clenches his jaw and doesn’t respond. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s strange, but Reed seems hurt by the silence. Why would he? Connor means nothing to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a brief moment where Reed appears to trade back and forth between pain and understanding, before landing on a very gentle expression that makes Connor battle with a mix of unease and some terrible facsimile of </span>
  <em>
    <span>comfort</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed nods, expression still gentle, but he returns to his previous location at Connor’s side, and instead of slinging his arm over his shoulder, snakes it around his waist, the careful grip of a hand forcing him to dismiss many warnings of physical threats. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don’t move, he tells himself, even as Reed presses his temple against Connor’s shoulder, posture relaxing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay. I’ll be ready to listen if you want to talk about it, baby.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wait-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>baby?</span>
  </em>
  <span> That is certainly new and Connor scrambles to qualify, quantify it in any way that even remotely makes sense. Why would Gavin--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he can confront it, though, before he can cross-reference with his ‘memory’ databanks to completely disprove the idea and settle the sudden pounding of his Thiruim pump--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinks, and the world inexplicably drains around him. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The prompt is pretty angsty, but honestly i didn't think anything crazy angsty belonged here yet, especially in the very simple story outline I have for this fic right now. Don't worry, you'll be getting enough angst to choke a horse later, so cheers to that lmao. Thanks for reading :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Time of the Hunter</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Connor thinks the crux of this instance is the chase. He is very, very wrong.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Connor lands into a sprint, feet pounding over sidewalk pavement in a frantic rhythm. There’s already a preconstructed path ahead of him and that, coupled with a clean mission objective hovering in his HUD, creates a clear line of action for him. It’s easy, requires little to no decision making of critical thought, and is a more than welcome reprieve from the madness, even if it may be a part of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Take comfort in your hell, he figures. You don’t know how long it will last.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he momentarily lets himself disregard his dilemma, even if it could potentially be neglectful of him. Sinking into the mission parameters, just him and the fleeing suspect, is like slipping on an old glove. The mission, and nothing else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He and the suspect weave and bob through smatterings of pedestrians, miscellaneous food vendors (four of which are without license), and through a few dark alleys before Connor is truly forced to make a critical decision. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The suspect shoves a young man off the curb and into the street in his haste, sending the pedestrian sprawling onto the concrete, and right into the bright gaze of an oncoming vehicle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chance of survival, low-- chance of catching the suspect if he pulls the pedestrian out of traffic, even lower. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some deep, twisted part of himself screeches that he should catch the suspect-- it’s the mission, after all-- and it sounds concerningly familiar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So familiar in fact, that he screeches to a halt and swipes the man out of the street, pulling him back to the pavement with less than a second to spare for his life. They thank him profusely, trying to shake his hand and crowding him-- but Connor’s eyes stay trained on the retreating figure that sifts in between crowds and drowns into the bustle of the city at dawn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next words are also disturbingly familiar: Mission Failed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the phrase drops from his vision, slides into the background, the preconstructions and analyses around him glimmer and drop like curtains. He’s caught off guard by the sudden shift in his worldview, as if he’s just shed a second skin. It’s jarring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, a figure darts out of an alleyway next to him, footsteps heavy against the ground as they come to an unsteady halt, panting as their hands land on their knees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would take less than a cursory glance to identify them as Reed, with the leather jacket and all, but Connor lets his eyes linger as Reed rights himself, face flushed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He get away, tin can?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor nods, somewhat relieved by the return to form. Names like ‘tin can’ and ‘asshole’ he can palate-- not… </span>
  <em>
    <span>whatever</span>
  </em>
  <span> that had happened before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit.” Reed says, looking off in the distance. “Shit! Fuck,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taking a moment to catch his breath completely, Reed stands in place and stares disappointedly down the street, the lowering sun igniting his face in varying shades of luminescent gold. His head shakes, and he looks down at the ground then at Connor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t get ‘em all. S’been a long day, anyways. Let’s head back-- I’ll take care of the reports tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ‘let’s’ raises a few red flags-- they got here together?-- but everything else seems so incredibly normal that he pushes it aside in favor of following Reed to his personal vehicle. Even the dates are close to the date he’d left off on. It’s not perfect, but any semblance of ‘before’ he will take with joy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the car, he tries to summon the will to try and decipher his surrounding, to pick it apart and figure out what is actually going on, but with the sun shining through the small gaps between buildings he recognizes in a city he belongs to, he can’t find it within himself to take his eyes off of it. Even if he’s in the car with Reed, something incredibly improbable from before, it’s an iteration of him he’s familiar with. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed pulls up to an apartment complex, shuts off the car, and makes his way to the doors as if it’s nothing special with Connor there. Curiously, Connor follows Reed up the stairs and to the door of an apartment, to which Reed steps through and leaves it open for Connor. A clear invitation in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shuts the door quietly behind him, taking immediate note of a black blazer, too narrow around the shoulder to be Reed’s, hung on the hook mounted on the back of the door. It’s probably his, he notes detachedly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He must visit often in this iteration-- or perhaps he lives here?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The layout of the apartment is fairly different from the last time he’d seen it, with the bathroom and bedroom switched, the living space connecting to another hallway that has two more doors connected, and the furniture is completely different along with some room dimensions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something weaves between his legs, and a glance downward reveals a cream-colored feline rubbing affectionately at his ankles. The name tag tinkles against a miniature bell, reading, ‘Sweetie’. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still Sweetie, then?” he murmurs, leaning over to stroke the cat’s soft fur. It’s nice, and an excellent distraction. She’s softer than Sumo, obviously smaller, but incredibly more limber and flexible. She purrs softly with every swipe of his hand against her fur. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed steps out of the bathroom, yawning and surveying the two of them. “Why don’t you take your shoes off, stay a while?” he says, a humorous tint to his tone. “S’not like you </span>
  <em>
    <span>live</span>
  </em>
  <span> here or anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor straightens up, brows furrowing. So… he lives here, then? He makes an effort to check his logs, check for anything of interest, but it seems as if a very specific portion of memories has been cordoned off. But… why?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” Reed says, stepping into the living space. “I know it’s gotta be hard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slips in between the coffee table and the couch, and interestingly enough, seats himself on the floor, using the front face of the sofa as a back rest. Sending a glance at Connor, he pats the space of carpet next to him. An invitation?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reluctantly, Connor slips his shoes off and sets them by the shoe rack-- which holds another pair just like his-- and pads over to Reed, who obviously tries his hardest to seem nonthreatening, which makes him all the more threatening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Connor settles down onto the carpet, legs extended awkwardly under the coffee table, he jerks when Reed immediately pushes himself to his feet, expecting something untoward. Instead, Reed seats himself on the couch, and squeezes his legs behind Connor’s back. It’s a bit of an awkward fit, but Connor doesn’t want to say anything in fear of provoking this familiar version of Reed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something on your mind?” Reed asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An incredible amount, more than he could ever know-- but Connor just says, “Didn’t catch the suspect.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed’s calloused hands land gently on his shoulder, and it takes almost everything in Connor to not stiffen under the weight. Slowly, the thumbs begin to trail up and down the back of Connor’s neck, cradling the spine that supports his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It feels… terribly wonderful. Just the gentle pressure, the near-intimate contact, is enough to send him spiraling into a haze, something almost unbeknownst to his processors that are generally on full-gear all the time. Their functions seem to slow minutely, starting to become syrupy and lax. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t be perfect all the time, but that’s not it, is it?” Reed says softly behind him, thumbs beginning to apply more pressure and drag further up his neck. “I don’t want to push… but you’re going to need to talk about it eventually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Connor blurts, even though the nanoseconds longer it takes to say feel like hours. Reed’s hands still for a terrifying moment, but shortly continue their trailing up and down, up and down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I get it,” he sighs, “I do. But, fuck, it’s been months, and it feels like you’re just pretending Hank never…” he trails off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. Connor thinks he understands why those memories are locked. Numbly, he opens the DPD file for Lieutenant Henry ‘Hank’ Anderson, and he feels the corners of his lips pinch painfully and his jaw clench when there’s an innocent row of numbers seated next to the date of birth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swallows. “It hurts,” he says, because it does. It’s not even the Hank he knows, the one he’s familiar with. It’s a completely different Hank, one that had shot himself shortly following the revolution. Out of a morbid curiosity, he looks over the suicide report, and his head drops into his chest and away from Reed’s comforting hands when it details on how </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> had been the one to call it in. To discover… Hank’s body. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It explains why Connor no longer lives with Hank, at least, but he feels as if he would be better off not knowing. He locks the report off from his viewing and stashes it among the memory files and the quarantined space of this memory's intact Zen Garden<br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, hey, take a deep breath.” The hands find their way to the underside of Connor’s jaw and gently lift his head so he’s facing forward again, and they begin to trail further up Connor’s neck, to the base of his skull, and very delicately-- through his hair. Nails run over his scalp and Connor bites his lip. Reed says, “Thank you for telling me.” and runs small circles over Connor’s skull as his hands descend back to the neck, and back upwards.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s an intoxicating rhythm, sending his processors into a slow, languid space, and coupled together with the unbelievable </span>
  <em>
    <span>care</span>
  </em>
  <span> Reed has been expressing, not this instance exclusively but across many, Connor’s eyebrows draw up and he closes his eyes against his better judgement. He lets himself sink into the sensations. It’s hard to think, like this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The patterns, the touch, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>pain</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- after a few, short deep breaths, his systems simply unable to qualify Reed as a threat, he slips into some semblance of stasis for a few, rewarding moments. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only thing able to make it through the haze is the gentle drag of fingers through his hair, lulling him gently out of this instance and into the next. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>oops, more sad stuff :( next chapter will be more fluffy, feat. connor not being a dick to gavin because gavin is just being... so nice. and it would be rude. LMAO. thanks for reading. :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Sun, The Moon, and All The Stars</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Things somehow get stranger-- but with a new angle to appreciate the world around him, Connor may have an idea of what just might be happening to him.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>His eyes slip open blearily, and his breath leaves him in an instant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stretching endlessly before, him, farther than his eyes can focus and infinitely larger than he can comprehend, is the crystal clear night sky, brigades of stars marching dutifully against the black velvet of space. Tracing a particularly long line of beautiful clusters-- the Milky Way, something tells him-- he lets himself relax in what he’s laying on. Grass, cool and shark against the bare skin of his ars, uncovered by the sleeves of a t-shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The level of sensation is surprising, but everything is a surprise right now and the sheer magnitude of the sky laid before him is incredible, so much so that he can’t find it in himself to categorize the information, just soak in the midnight expanses of glittering stars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s breathtaking-- and that’s just an adjective. Until it isn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor inhales with a gasp, </span>
  <em>
    <span>feeling</span>
  </em>
  <span> the air rush into his lungs, permeating his body. A head rush accompanies it, somehow sending him reeling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hand gently squeezes his, and Connor already knows whose it is by the shape and size. “It’s quite the fuckin’ view, right?” Reed says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor can’t help but agree-- but the novelty has lessened somewhat with the realization of his </span>
  <em>
    <span>fleshy</span>
  </em>
  <span> condition. He swallows, but even that is different, different fluids and motions, and he realizes just how incredibly improbable the situation is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor is an </span>
  <em>
    <span>android</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and any ‘memories’--corrupted or otherwise-- should reflect him as so. This is… new. He doesn’t dare say exciting, even though it is, with all it’s opportunities and new horizons to view. Breathing for survival is second nature to him here, blinking to moisten his eyes a necessity he wasn’t privy to before-- but it’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span>, right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hand tightens against his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tilting his head to the side, Connor plans on just examining what small changes have befallen Reed with this iteration-- but for the first time in his life, Connor quite literally chokes on his words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sits up ramrod straight, coughing violently into his arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed sits up, too, violently green eyes accenting against his swirling yellow LED. It turns once, twice, then settles on a bright blue as he gently rubs his thumb over Connor’s now-calloused knuckles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before, Connor had thought the phrase ‘I think I’m going to be sick’ was a hyperbole of human experience. Now, though… he will never disregard Hank when he says it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m okay,” Connor says, partially to keep Reed’s eyes off of him and partially to get his LED to stop twitching to yellow. Reed simply nods and leads them both back down into the grass, and Connor takes a moment to truly appreciate the difference between being an android and this (time’s? memory’s?) idea of what being a human is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His vision is blissfully empty-- no HUD, no alerts, no programs trying to butt in. It’s wonderfully simple, just the view in front of him and his thoughts-- which are strangely different, too. It’s terrifyingly unreliable, he finds when he tries to sift through this instance’s formulated memories. There’s no files, no clear views of what he’s seen. Just passing impressions, not seen but visualized in hazy shapes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Honestly, it’s beyond him that he didn’t realize it sooner, but the view </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> incredibly breathtaking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Makes me feel kinda insignificant,” Reed laughs from next to him. “It’s stupid, but, there’s just so fuckin’ many of them, across billions of miles, each just slightly different from the next, for such small reasons. Makes you think about your place in all of it. Actually-" Reed scoffs at himself. "that was cheesy as shit. Don't listen to anything I say."<br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a statement unfortunately harmonious with Connor’s thoughts-- just with different context. It’s actually a little more advanced than Connor’s, but now he thinks about it, it could be a little closer to home than he initially thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Connor murmurs. “But it’s beautiful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can hear Reed turn his head to face Connor, who is still trained on the sky’s brilliance. “That, it is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor swallows again, a strange heat filling his facial region. Wishing desperately to change Reed’s line of thought, Connor’s eyes flicker between the stars with genuine wonder as he devises a line of action. “Which is your favorite?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What kind of question is that?” Reed breathes, some humor in his voice. “Favorite of </span>
  <em>
    <span>billions</span>
  </em>
  <span>? I don’t even know anything about them-- s’awfully presumptuous of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor points towards one that is generally brighter than the rest, past the horizon. It’s partly to drag the conversation away from him.  “That’s mine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not a star, Con. That’s Jupiter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does it matter?” Connor replies, slightly annoyed. “I didn’t specify stars.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed gently laughs despite Connor’s sharp tone, and when Connor hears the rustling of grass that is too near to be due to the wind, he somehow knows the other man has turned onto his side and propped his own head up with his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In that case,” he says, “I think I know </span>
  <em>
    <span>mine</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meeting Reed's eyes is a mistake and he knows it, but the moment they lock, Connor feels very watched, like Reed’s violently green eyes stare straight through him. His eyes flit to the LED spinning a lazy blue, but something in Connor’s expression must disconcert him as it momentarily spins yellow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed smirks and leans back down into the grass. “I thought it’d be a bitch finding somewhere without light pollution. Turns out Michigan is way bigger than I thought, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit</span>
  </em>
  <span> this was worth it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hand gently retangles itself in Connor’s, fingers sliding against fingers, and Connor feels a peculiar sensation against his palm, a gentle prickling that seems to slide in a wave. A furtive glance downward reveals a small line of blue trailing up Reed’s hand, revealing the chassis of his arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor breathes a little harder, blinks a little firmer. That is an… intimate decision. Perhaps it holds different weight since one of them is human? Connor knows that he would use it if it were particularly difficult to say something, if the sheer quantity or magnitude of his feelings were too much to convey verbally….</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. That is what this Reed is doing, very well knowing it can never actually connect with Connor. Just the action makes Connor’s face flush again, annoyingly enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns his attention back to the stars, and eyes the intricate patterns that humans have developed over the millennia, just basic shapes of unique stars denoting much more intricate figures and stories. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed’s comment about the star’s unique qualities sticks with his mind, though, and he finds himself uselessly ruminating it in odd, lazy loops as he tears his thoughts away from Reed and his similarly odd condition. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes follow a short line of stars, each one glimmering a little brighter than the last; a quality borne of minute differences in gaseous chemical composition making it shine just a little differently. Or perhaps it’s the difference in distance-- millions of miles making it seem smaller to his eyes where the light meets them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Trillions of stars; trillions of minute differences and similarities strung among billions of miles of empty space. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something clicks as Reed’s hand tightens against his once more. It’s a different experience than connecting two dots on a case, the clinical execution-- no, it’s a key sliding into place followed by a sudden rush of excitement and euphoria, sending his head spinning with the boundless implications. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s wonderfully overwhelming, and Connor forces himself to blink away some of the new sensation to truly zero in on the concept. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>While the idea applies perfectly fine to stars, he finds himself applying it to his situation-- and finding it more and more plausible. Instead of stars, it’s these instances, trillions of different Connors and Reeds strewn across whatever fabric that ties them together, and somehow Connor has been able to sink through that fabric and into instances in which he does not belong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s preposterous, but some nagging part of him won’t let it go. It’s a theory too compelling to discard, and it would neatly explain at least some parts of his situation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps he is just cycling through instances in which reality has been shifted to the left a few steps? Not completely unfamiliar, but still somehow an entirely new set of rules, people, personalities, all offset by one, two, maybe hundreds of individual decisions leading to that very moment. Like Cole, or Hank, or Reed somehow caring about him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s compelling. Ultimately so-- but before he can think about Reed’s lasting place in everything, his eyes close for less than a second and it feels like he slips right past the grass beneath him. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>sorry this is a bit late, I wanted to add a little bit more before posting and it was really late. so here we are! reverse au was something I wanted to shoehorn in here somehow, and i thought it wold be interesting to explore the difference between being human and an android. fun times! thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Dancing Devils</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>This Reed is arguably impeccable-- clean shaven, hair cropped at the sides, and dressed in an acutely tailored suit-- but there's a shine in his eyes that belies something sharp and intriguing.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Connor slips onto his feet and into a veritable cascade of sound and movement. All around him, in the wide, warm, illuminated space, are dozens of sharply dressed individuals swirling around in waves and tides of high-class dress and garb.</p><p>It’s immediately almost too much, but a small mission objective pops up in the corner of his vision and the relief that he is back to his usual android state overrides it. Inspecting it, it already has a pre-formed plan of action, so he can essentially take a back seat on this instance and observe.</p><p>The mission states: Question Gavin.</p><p>That’s it-- and he can’t help but note how there is no last name attached. A quick check to the database reveals that Reed’s last name has been carefully excised. Odd. </p><p>Without much time to ruminate on it (apparently Reed tends to vacate these functions once he tires of them) he scans the frothing masses of upper class citizens in the gala for the likely out-of-place mug of Reed. Knowing Reed had never attended any social functions at the DPD, whether it be fundraisers or parties, he keeps his surveying towards the corners of the venue, sifting through groups of less socially-inclined socialites.</p><p>It is likely through the foolish assumption that this Reed would be like the one he knows (honestly, he should know better at this point) that he is caught completely off guard. With his attention locked onto the outskirts, he barely manages to notice the familiar figure that saunters from the center of the space. </p><p>When his attention <em> is </em> caught, however, he turns to face the figure who still approaches, and he has incredible difficulty equating this person from the Reed he knows-- or any of the Reeds he’s met, either. </p><p>It feels as if most of the grit or weathering on Reed has been carefully polished away, to reveal a suave, glowing man that Connor needs to blink a few times to recognize. Draped around his form is a fitted suit, cuff links shining in the incandescent lighting, with several equally sharply dressed people loosely clinging to his arms as the attendees part like a divine sea in front of him. </p><p>His skin is clearer, missing a number of scars and marks it once held (though the one across his nose is still very present), and his hair is cropped shorter at the sides, revealing a single, black helix piercing seated at the top of his ear. Gone is the tarnish that years of DPD work departed upon him, and in its place is a clean, classy version of Gavin Reed that would look more in place on a magazine than at a desk in the Detroit Precinct. </p><p>He’s been staring, and Reed’s sharp green eyes look him languidly up and down, undoubtedly noticing Connor’s gaze. Quietly dismissing the hoarders of gaudy jewelry on his arms, he takes the last few steps toward Connor in a confident waltz, and it takes considerable willpower for Connor to keep his face neutral. </p><p>Pale lips separate, and out between them slips, “And to whom do I owe the pleasure?”</p><p>It’s clear the use of ‘whom’ is meant to be sarcastic, or at least comedic, even despite the now-high class way Reed holds himself. Noting the tone of the conversation, Connor replies, “Connor, but are you sure I’m the one you want to talk to?”</p><p>Reed’s sight slips off of Connor and towards the swaths of people he had just shrugged off. He rolls his eyes. “They’re just a bunch of fuckin’ leeches--” his eyes flick to Connor, “--excuse my language. Besides, ‘Connor’, something tells me you are far more interesting.”</p><p>His words end in a sultry purr, and if Connor were still human his face would most definitely flush. Taking a long sip of his golden-colored drink, Reed steps forward some feet closer and skillfully sets the empty glass on a passing tray.</p><p>“Call me Gavin, sweetheart.” he says, eyes half-lidded. “What can I do for you?”</p><p>Finally, Connor’s pre-constructed plan of action for the questioning can kick into gear. Letting himself slot into the predetermined actions, he says, “I want to ask you a few things about Alan Langston.”</p><p>Immediately, Reed’s eyes sharpen, and Connor can’t help but anticipate the uptick of his processors with bated breath as he watches the gears in the aristocratic man’s head begin to turn. A sly smirk, a glint in his eyes, and Reed says, “I’d be happy to let you all I know-- that is, if you’d humor me with a dance.”</p><p>“A dance?” Connor says perhaps a little too quickly. “I wasn’t aware this was the dancing sort of occasion.”</p><p>An eyebrow lifts, “I usually leave before that part, but for you?” he hums. “I’m willing to make an exception. You dance?”</p><p>Connor nods. “I am capable.”</p><p>Reed’s smile is sharp. “Perfect.”</p><p>Without warning, Connor’s forearm is grabbed and he is suddenly being carted alongside Reed, with his hand gently grasping the inside of Reed’s bent elbow like he’s his invited, personal guest. Eyes flock to them, and Connor feels intimately put on the spot by the murmurs generating in the expanse of expensive coats and dresses. </p><p>A hand gently lays on top of his-- Reed’s he notices, but softer without the decade of police work to wear them. A breath ghosts over his ear. “Relax, will you? I got you.”</p><p>He swallows unnecessarily, but he’s somewhat quelled by the whisper. A glance down toward Reed reveals he’s smiling, but his eyes are sharp as he surveys the crowd’s suspicious glances, deflecting their gazes and assumptions with frigid green. </p><p>This Reed commands a room with merely a look, and despite being somewhat shorter than Connor somehow leads him along like arm candy --and in the suit Connor’s wearing he might as well be. He hadn’t noticed it before, but it appears clear now that his intention the entire time was to catch Reed’s eye, with a particularly... ‘flattering’ navy suit.</p><p>It worked, so who is he to complain? </p><p>Reed stops just as they meet the center of the venue, right in the lines of sight of nearly everyone attending the function. They’re close to the live instrumentalists, too, close enough for Connor to see the oboist’s LED flicker yellow. </p><p>“The center?” Connor asks, somewhat shakily. “Are you sure?”</p><p>An odd look crosses Reed’s face. “You are a breath of fresh fucking air, Connor.” he catches himself, and adds, “Excuse my language.”</p><p>“It’s alright. But why is that surprising, if you don’t mind me asking?”</p><p>As Reed begins to lead them to center left, apparently heeding Connor’s reluctance to be center stage, he says, “I don’t dance with anyone. Just assumed you’d wanted to be seen, but hey-- fresh air. I like it.”</p><p>His hand reaches up and plucks Connor’s from his elbow, placing it onto his suited shoulder. The fabric is intensely expensive-- and that’s only considering the material, not the tailoring, not the shoes, or the wristwatch. Whatever the crux of this instance is, Reed has copious amounts of money. And also technically isn’t ‘Reed’.</p><p>A single note plays over the murmur of the gala, then two, then three, and soon enough Connor is leading in a Viennese Waltz. Several other pairs begin to move as well, and he finds it interesting that so many high-class socialites know how to waltz.</p><p>Reed scoffs at the band. “A waltz? What year does my brother think this is, sixteen-hundred?” but he takes Connor’s lead in stride and follows the motions with practiced precision. After a few measures, Reed pulls him in scandalously close with a strong hand on his back. “So, Connor, what can I help you with? Alan Langston, was it?”</p><p>The distance between them is little but the music forces him to lean closer in order to be heard, the words already scripted for him. “He had just finished a phone call with you before he was murdered two days ago. We were wondering if you had any knowledge of anyone who might want him dead, or if he said anything important on that phone call.”</p><p>Reed’s voice is low. “Why not just ask for my phone?” he asks. “I don’t have anything to hide.”</p><p>“That’s not an answer,” Connor says sharply. “And we would need a warrant to search your phone.”</p><p>Two steps, one more, another measure, and Reed says, “We really didn’t talk much, or about anything important. Nothing you would find important, at least.” Reed’s hand drifts upwards to Connor’s, and he very deliberately takes it from it’s place on his waist and moves it close to his front pocket, where the outline of a smartphone presses up against the pricey fabric. “You wouldn’t need a warrant if I gave it willingly.”</p><p>Connor, miraculously, feels Thirium rush to his face, and it must flush a brilliant blue, because Reed’s cocksure facade drops for a moment and his eyes widen minutely. Setting his brow, Connor pulls his hand from Reed’s grasp and gently flicks it, admonishing the action. “It would be easier if you just told me.”</p><p>“Holy shit,” Reed breathes, but quickly gathers his stature. He opens his mouth probably to apologize for his language, but he visibly tamps it down now that he probably knows Connor is considerably different than those who would actually care about it. “He didn’t say much, to be honest. He’s one of those types-- a lot of words with no meaning, empty platitudes and all that.” </p><p>His eyes shine as they move across the floor. “Are you going to give me an answer, or are you going to be evasive?” Connor asks, genuinely annoyed that his pre-planned responses are going straight down the drain. </p><p>A grin-- and it’s sharp, toothy. Connor chooses to look at Reed’s ear piercing-- which is hauntingly familiar now that he thinks about it. But Reed’s head turns and obscures it as he feigns to consider Connor’s question. His gaze is instead drawn to the line of his jaw.</p><p>“Maybe you’re asking the wrong questions.” Reed proposes, and Connor scoffs even as Reed pulls him impossibly closer.</p><p>“What would you like me to ask you, then? Do you know who killed him?”</p><p>Reed’s expression becomes dangerous, and the curl of his lips tells Connor he just might. With his hand now back on Connor’s shoulder, he feels Reed rub his thumb over the fabric and snag his nail on the lapel, the motion not at all interrupted by the movement of the waltz. “I have my ideas.”</p><p>Very slowly, Connor blinks, unimpressed. Reed’s head ducks for a moment as he huffs out a confident laugh, but doesn’t say anything further. Taking a page from Hank’s book, Connor says, “Care to share with the class?”</p><p>The huff turns into a chuckle, and Reed turns his eyes back to Connor’s, pupils blown oh so very wide. “My money’s on the assistant.” he says finally. “She’s hated him since day one. For good reason, too-- he’s a sleazebag and definitely tried to grope her on more than one occasion. Couple that with some capitalistic instability, threat of losing her job in this economy, and a family to feed, well…” he shrugs. “You know how that story ends.”</p><p>“How can you be sure?” Connor asks, somewhat dumbfounded. “And how do you know so much about her?”</p><p>“Ella Hughes? She confides in me.” he says plainly. “Let me guess-- was the murder weapon an antique letter opener? Got the initials ‘R.M’ on the handle?”</p><p>Connor pauses, and his steps falter in the waltz as the report confirms Reed’s statement. A letter opener said to be from the 1760’s, and a likely family heirloom. No prints. Sliced across Langston’s throat, then stabbed into his groin and left there. </p><p>“I’ll take that as a yes. She probably used it because it was a prized possession of Langston’s, probably something from the family and very expensive. Purely decorative, of course-- no one sends actual letters anymore-- and kept in a small case on the top of one of the bookshelves in his office. I’d look for that box if I were you. Though there’s likely no fingerprints on it either if there weren’t any on the letter opener.”</p><p>“What are you playing at?” Connor asks, suddenly very, very suspicious. “This isn’t a game.”</p><p>“No,” he agrees, “of course not. I said I would tell you what you wanted to know, didn’t I?” he says. “And you wanted to know who killed him.”</p><p>Connor forces himself to breathe and release some of the heat that’s built up in his chassis. But he <em> does </em> want to know, even if it’s not really his case. Plus, Reed’s convictions in his statements piques his interest terribly. “I’ll bite, then. Do you think you know anything else the DPD might find pertinent?”</p><p>“There we go,” Reed says, satisfied. His gaze turns hot again, flickering over Connor’s face and seeming to categorize every part of it. Connor tries desperately to not do whatever had happened earlier and have his face tinge blue. “I’d advise you to check the dumpsters next door if there are indeed no fingerprints at the scene. Ella had a wonderful pair of satin gloves that she may or may not have worn whenever she got angry at Langston-- and you may or may not find a particularly incriminating set of expensive evening gloves disposed of there. It <em> is </em>where she discards personal trash after all. Says the janitorial services are too slow and dig through her garbage.”</p><p>It is at this moment that Connor realizes that this Reed is just as much a detective as any other Reed he’s encountered-- especially the initial. This one just works in what ways his lifestyle allows him, holding dirt and keeping his cards close to his chest until the most opportune moment. Still, the incredible instinct persists in even this version of Reed, and if his reality theory is true, it must be a core trait for him for it to last between them.</p><p>“Thank you,” Connor says. “I’m sure your insight will be invaluable to the DPD.” and because he can’t help it, can’t let that raw talent go to waste, he says-- “have you ever considered doing consultant work?”</p><p>This time, Reed <em> does </em>laugh. “I like you a lot, Connor. Actually-- how about we,” he leans in close to Connor, close enough for his breath to brush over his ear as he says, “get the hell out of here?”</p><p>“No, thank you,” Connor says, thankful that the waltz is just about to wind down. As it ends on its final notes, Connor parts from Reed, his front side oddly cold without the other man to inappropriately press against him, though he does still linger in close quarters. “But truly, your information will be vital to the solving of this case.” he gazes down at Reed, somewhat intrigued by this instance’s ability to be both shockingly new and familiar at the same time. “Thank you, Reed.”</p><p>And he realizes the mistake just as he says it-- he doesn’t need Reed’s shocked look and small posture to tell him he just made a massive mistake. He watches as Reed’s jaw clenches and unclenches in tandem with his fists, breaths coming in short puff as he searches Connor’s face for any sort of answer. The confident facade drops like a heavy curtain. </p><p>“How do you know that name?” Reed grits out, voice shaking. At Connor’s silence he reiterates his question, no stronger than the last, but Connor still does not answer, not knowing what he could begin to say. <em> Are you familiar with the Infinite Realities Theory? </em>That would be an <em>impeccable</em> conversation starter, even if this Reed seems prone to intellectual conversation. </p><p>As Reed’s heart begins to flutter and his stress begins to tick upwards at alarming rates, he begins to sweat and his face becomes pallid. An attack of some sort, Connor realizes belatedly, but before he can do anything to ease it Reed utters a quiet, <em> Excuse me</em>, and flees on unsteady legs to the bathrooms. He takes a step to follow, to try and alleviate the situation he’s caused but--</p><p>he gets a terrifying sensation that his feet sink through the floor-- then he blinks, and the bustle and hum of the spacious room melts around him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>LMAOOOO i had SO MUCH fun writing this chapter, which is why it's 2.7k long lmaoo. idk, there was something so intriguing about Gavin (last name??? who knows wink wink wink wink) it was a lot of fun to write is what I'm saying, and I hope it's a lot of fun to read. Thanks for reading, and I'll see you tomorrow!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. No Turning Back</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>That was more Reed than he ever needed to see.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Connor barely blinks awake in a bed-- though he is somewhat disappointed that it’s not his own. Whatever hope that had manifested that the strange nightmare had ended was dashed away, but it’s all very muddy anyways. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His processors, unusually slow, struggle to process the space around him. His eyes barely pry open, his arms barely move. He should be alarmed at the unresponsiveness of his own body, but he just lets his head fall back onto the pillow as he rubs his cheek on the soft case. It’s quite reminiscent of the Reed a few instances ago, when his nails had gently run up and down Connor’s scalp and gently lulled him into an interesting type of stasis. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Connor were more awake, he’d be horrified by the contented hum that slips past his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stays in that position, letting his processors drag through their syrupy condition like sluggish flowers barely opening for the day. It’s too warm, too comfortable, and actually putting forth the effort to get up seems like a monumental task. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A snore pierces the air, and Connor blinks away some of the fog to roll over and check it out. Honestly, it kind of sounds like Sumo’s snores--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A head of mussed brown hair peeks through where a pillow has been unconsciously maneuvered onto his head, strands falling all over the sheets and sticking to the skin on his neck. Another gentler snore, and Connor has already categorized the timber and octave of the tone, the soft palate space, and the nasal aspect-- and it’s very clear he is currently in bed beside Gavin Reed, completely unconscious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now thoroughly awake (and somewhat shaken by his failure to function at 100% upon exiting stasis), Connor sighs, thoroughly unsure of his situation. The whirlwind of the last instance had left him little opportunity to muse about it, but the lasting elements of Reed had given him more to contemplate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least now, with Reed sufficiently incapacitated for the time being, he can’t cause any more issues and Connor can take some time and think. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And think, and think. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Immediately, his processors kick into full gear, and the whiplash from the slow to overclocked states is jarring-- but not enough to be deterring. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His first assumption had been that all of this had been some sort of corrupted backlog of memories, somehow leaking into his systems after a critical failure two years after the confrontation with Reed. But that explained the times, and only some of the inconsistencies. Maybe a corruption could switch a file to mark Cole Anderson as alive, but to assume that his preconstruction software would not only notice the change but also reconstruct his memories to suit the consequences is a little more than generous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So it ruled out the preconstruction software, which would have left Connor scrambling for any other explanation, had Reed’s statements about the stars never happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But what he had said, about how none of them were exactly alike, set apart by minute differences in composition that spirals into changes in brightness, size, color… it wormed its way into Connor’s human mind and stuck there like a leech. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The theory about his preconstructions had even seemed preposterous even when he was human-- but if the ideas about the stars were applied to </span>
  <em>
    <span>reality</span>
  </em>
  <span>, well. His human psyche had latched on, and even if he would like to disregard the illogical fascination of a human mind it’s too compelling to disregard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What if Connor is switching through </span>
  <em>
    <span>realities</span>
  </em>
  <span>? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It sounds insane, like some ramblings of a madman, but it makes sense in at least what Connor understands. Alternate realities, infinite universes, the multiverse-- he had somehow slipped through the cracks in his own and is being tossed like a ragdoll between them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a solid theory. Sort of. But as long as he has an idea of what his situation is, he can start to formulate a way </span>
  <em>
    <span>out</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and back to the reality he knows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In his systems, in a way he hopes will persist through the switches, he categorizes his information, both new and old. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are two distinct files-- the Initial, and everything after. The Initial contains everything he remembers from his original reality, including his Hank, Reed, Sumo, et cetera. Without the actual memory files from that time, he has to approximate the best he can-- which is terrifyingly vague, closer to the unreliable human memory. It really makes him realize how long he’s been gone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything else? Shoved into the other file, haphazardly. Fresher than the Initial memories, they’re a little easier to approximate and create short term memory files for, and he throws a few actual memory files from this reality for good measure, just to see if they’ll stay. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seeing it organized makes his stress lessen somewhat. All his information is in line-- now it’s just a matter of figuring out why he’s switching and how to get back. Without permanent access to databases and in a very experimental and theoretical branch of physics, all the while dealing with his coworker who generally seems to prefer being in far too close quarters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Simple enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor groans and sets his face in his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a rustling of sheets, but Connor doesn’t bother to remove his hands; he already knows Reed is getting up to urinate, something Hank does like clockwork. Instead of getting off the bed, though, the mattress dips as Reed’s weight shifts towards Connor’s side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lips press gently to Connor’s temple, on his LED, and retract not a moment later. His hands drop minutely as Reed says, “G’morning, Con.” and swings his legs off the bed. Connor watches as the sheets shift and pull with his movements, but the moment Reed stands up and lets the sheet drop, Connor’s eyes immediately dark back down to his lap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed, apparently not at all shameful of his bare ass, hobbles blearily out of the room with a stilted gait and to what Connor assumes is the bathroom. At least that he got that right-- but Reed being as naked as the day he was born was definitely a surprise, and probably not a good one. That was more Reed than he </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever </span>
  </em>
  <span>needed to see. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he could get headaches while being an android, he’s sure he’d be getting one right now. It just seems like one of the moments Hank would start to complain about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Figuring it’s as good a time as any, with Reed preoccupied, he swings his legs over the side of the mattress and immediately stuffs the fabric back over his body the moment he realizes that he, too, is very naked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed’s gait, his state of undress… oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>no. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Suddenly, Connor is incredibly grateful that he never dug into this iteration’s memories. Following a rushed glance at the floor, Connor scoops up his clothes and hastily throws on what he can, woefully noting the absence of a tie and socks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, Reed doesn’t re-enter the room after leaving, and if the sounds of the kitchen are anything to go by, he’s scrounging up something to eat for breakfast. It disturbs him how casual it all is… like it happens often. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor shoves that thought as far back in his systems as possible and stands up on bare feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Outside, Reed leans up against the counter with a piece of toast in his hand. He’s also scrounged up a pair of boxers from who knows where and slipped them on, but it doesn’t leave much to the imagination still. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good morning,” Connor says, not really knowing what else </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> be said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Morning,” Reed says with a mouthful of toast. “How you feelin’?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feeling after… what they did. What Reed had done not with </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but with some alternate version. That makes it a little more palatable to think about, at least. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed takes his silence with faux offense. “Having second thoughts?” His eyes gain a sly glint. “You know what they say, you take Con up the back, there’s no going back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor splutters. “That’s not a saying at all!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laughing, Reed struggles to keep a hold on his toast without touching the buttered side.. “But it’s true, isn’t it? You seem to be enjoying it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That has no bearing on the status of the phrase as an idiom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So stiff,” Reed remarks. Then: “I would know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A terrible wink right after, Connor feels his face flush inexplicably once again, hoping for the sweet release of the reality shift-- it doesn’t come, of course. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a heinous statement, to imply that having sex or in any way ‘going with’ Connor is subject to irreparable change, and he lets it show on his face that his words are less than appreciated. Reed just takes it in stride, however, and says, “Hey, hey, I’m not complaining, man. Just the opposite.” he takes another bite of his toast. “I got some thirium in the fridge if you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thirium? Not only is it surprising that Reed knows the actual name other than ‘blue blood’, but that he also stores some in his fridge-- presumably for Connor, if he’s over so often. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A quick check at his thirium levels reveals that his is actually down quite a few percent, odd considering he hasn’t been doing any activities that would-- oh. Never mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor’s learned not to look a gift horse in the mouth, however, and hesitantly steps over to the fridge. Pulling it open, he inspects the lines of food items and spots a few neatly organized thirium pouches next to the milk. He pinches one by the corner and removes it, gently shutting the fridge once he realizes it’s chilled air is seeping out into the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your milk is expired,” he says. “It has been for a week-- I would recommend disposing of it immediately.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes some pleasure in the way Reed sputters and immediately sets down his toast to take care of it. At least he has some sense of cleanliness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Connor begins to sip the thirium -- truth be told, it’s the first time he’s ingested thirium orally -- he finds himself glad that he cannot really taste, as the chemical composition of Thirium-310 would make it very bitter. And also toxic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His thirium levels slowly replenish, and he’s almost grateful for Reed’s thoughtfulness as the motion also takes a load off his processors. Watching Reed also attend to the organization and upkeep of his apartment is also somehow a soothing event, and after he’s rinsed the rancid milk down the drain with cold water, Connor’s system stress drops to the single digits-- which he now realizes hasn’t been the case since the instance where Reed had lulled him to sleep. He reorganizes the folder with the new realities to include that one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Augh,” Reed groans as he chucks the rinsed carton in the recycling. “Fucking nasty. Thanks for letting me know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My pleasure.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed turns back to him and leans back on the counter, head tilted as he regards Connor with warm eyes. To try and deflect his gaze, Connor sips some more thirium from the pouch but it does nothing to drag Gavin’s eyes away from Connor’s face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pushing himself off the counter, Reed approaches Connor with an almost predatory expression-- but it doesn’t raise any alarms in his systems. In fact, it’s such a familiar action that any warnings about Reed have been carefully coded out, and probably by his own hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No turning back,” Reed murmurs, and leans in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor is almost glad he slips through the floor before whatever plan Reed had could be set into motion. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>gavin walking around bare-ass was just too funny an image to pass up, plus with how connor would take it. this chapter was largely to establish some ideas that will come up later-- reality, the Initial, etc. usually i wouldn't write reed this overtly flirtatious and suggestive, but in this instance this is a common occurrence for them so he felt more than comfortable doing so, because his con would take it in stride. </p><p>hope you enjoyed! see you tomorrow :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Cast Your Spell</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>This reality operates on a completely different axis than what Connor knows-- and it's thrilling.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He just can’t catch a break, can he? Why are there never switches where everything’s easy-- preferably, with no Reed. Sure, the last reality was somewhat calmer than usual, but he did </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> need to view Reed’s bare buttocks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ducks behind a storage container as a bullet of an indeterminable metal squeals past his head and into the wall. Not realizing he’d been hoping for something until it was dashed away, he feels the need to lob something very heavy at the wild face of Reed as he rounds the corner to Connor’s cover.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he turns his gaze back to the wall to analyze the direction of the bullet, the amount of wall damage gives him pause-- it’s far too destructive for a mere bullet to punch a fist sized hole through concrete. Another bullet pops through the air and creates a disproportionately sized dent, and a strange and indescribable electric feeling fills the air as the bullet swings by. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit,” Reed says. “S’got some serious runes on his bullets.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor nearly asks for clarification, but soon Reed is digging through his leather jacket’s internal pockets for several cartridges for his service pistol. As the leather bends and manipulates, though, Connor can’t help but note the change in style-- it’s far more geometric and asymmetrical than Reed’s usual jacket, and there’s a very intricate set of circular stitching on the inner layer near Reed’s back, hidden from view but the threads distorting the material just enough for Connor’s scanners to pick them up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His interest is irreversibly piqued when Reed selects a clip titled, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tracking</span>
  </em>
  <span>, in his own markered handwriting, and disengages the previous magazine to load it. Reaching around the container-- not even </span>
  <em>
    <span>aiming</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- there’s another spike of electricity in the air and a gunshot goes off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a muffled grunt, the distinct sound of a bullet burying itself in flesh, but no body falls to the floor. Had that shot just hit? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t contemplate it, however, before another gun fires and the container they’re behind shakes and shudders with concussive force. Another one of those powerful rounds, it seems. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit, that fuckin’ hit him, too.” Reed curses. “Where the fuck did he get runed bullets like that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed disengages and checks his cartridge-- for what?--, then pushes it in again with a click. This time, he aims straight upward, scrunches his face in concentration, and slowly depresses the trigger. There’s another buildup of static before the bullet is released, but Connor locks his systems onto the bullet’s trajectory. It should lodge itself in the ceiling-- but it </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bullet slips out of the chamber, the rifling sending it spinning accurately upwards-- but then, some infinitely minuscule grooves on the bullet start to seep light, and the path bends at a rounded ninety-degree angle and shoots over their heads.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor nearly spews some profanity at the absurdity of the event, but there’s another sound of a bullet hitting flesh and this time, a body drops with it. Reed audibly exhales a sigh of relief, and begins to gradually pull himself up from their position. Connor follows suit, though his mind is thoroughly elsewhere as he does as much research into this reality as he can. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This instance, reality, whatever-- it functions on a completely different axis than the Initial, or really any other realities he’s seen thus far. If he didn’t already believe he was falling through reality this would seem all the more unbelievable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s… magic. Or, ‘magick’, if you’re particularly traditional. It’s so incredible, so </span>
  <em>
    <span>different</span>
  </em>
  <span>, that Connor has trouble working at full efficiency for a few, solid moments. Runes, magic, elixirs; it’s all new territory, and has somehow blended with the familiar technology that he’s made of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s so engrossed, he barely realizes the man bleeding out from Reed’s (runed!) bullets shakily raises his firearm and aims directly at Reed’s chest. His systems slow for him to make time to react, and he already knows one hit from the bullet would kill Reed immediately, if not lead him to bleed out in under a minute. <br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s nothing he can throw, no gun in his holster. Reed isn’t fast enough to shoot or dodge, and no matter how much of a pain Reed can be, getting a fist-sized hole forcibly put into your body is a regrettable death for anyone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scrambles for an option-- but somewhere, tingling at the back of his chassis, is a sensation that Connor can’t push aside. It crawls up and down his back, and in a desperate moment, he disengages his preconstruction software and flings his arms outward, feeling the electricity race through his biocomponents and through his arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Miraculously and </span>
  <em>
    <span>terrifyingly</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the air distorts as if a high powered explosive had detonated, and the man’s arms slams down to the ground above his head, gun skittering across the floor without a chance to even fire it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed’s hand is just reaching his gun, and the force of the energy blew his hair out of place and into a wild mess more reminiscent of Reed getting out of bed, but less… cheeky. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mouth pistons open and shut a few times as he uselessly gestures between the man writing on the bloody ground and Connor’s drooping arms. Eventually, when his mind catches up with him, he says, “What the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor’s arms retract sharply as he holds them in front of himself, shocked. He had… done </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you just--” Reed stammers. “Wait, holy shit. Holy shit!” He bounds up to Connor and grabs his forearm roughly. The moment their skin touches a zing goes up Connor’s arm and Reed’s eyes widen as he releases his grip, letting Connor’s arms drop to his sides. “You just did magic. Some messy shit, but… magic. You just did that-- without a rune, even!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a step back, and looks over the information available to him, and-- oh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Androids don’t have a capacity for magic. They can’t charge runes, can’t inscribe them. But, what Connor just did was, indeed, magic. Terribly unfocused, nearly aimless without the help of a hand-inscribed rune to channel and shape it, but he had done it-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>magic</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes meet Reed’s. Reed grins. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, wait-- let me call this in, but we’re seeing if that was a fluke or not later, alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed grabs his cell phone and efficiently calls in the injury and suspect, but Connor can’t help but revel in the shuddering aftershocks of his actions. He runs on electricity, he has a battery and can charge, but this sensation is entirely new and invigorating as it jumps and skips and hops around his entire being. It’s a different kind of power, the same kind that crackled in the air whenever Reed shot his runed bullets or when the shooter’s bullets punched divots in the wall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once the shooter has been attended to, Reed ushers Connor to his personal vehicle, where he leans through the open window and reaches for his coffee thermos. Extracting it, Reed holds it out to Connor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rotates it so the bottom is visible. On it, carefully engraved into the metal, is a complicated series of shapes and vectors all contained somewhat to a near-perfect circle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tina engraved it,” Reed says impatiently. “It keeps my coffee warm, c’mon!” he sets it in Connor’s hand. An analysis of the rune shows that it’s meticulously designed-- runes generally are single-use, but the one on the thermos is able to be reused, at the expense of having a short activation time of approximately ten minutes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taking it gingerly (metal-engraved runes are apparently very difficult to get right, so Officer Chen must have worked very hard), Connor sets the bottom on his palm. The intricate grooves in the aluminum sing and call, and Connor lightly sends some of the electric sensation into it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It lights, and the insulated mug warms. Reed’s eyes are somehow brighter than the unnatural glow of the rune. When their eyes meet again, Reed’s pupils are blown wide and his face inexplicably flushes. Well- not ‘inexplicably’. Connor knows why, but why </span>
  <em>
    <span>Reed</span>
  </em>
  <span> is a different issue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed plucks the mug from his grasp and rifles through his pockets, where he extracts a piece of crumpled up paper and a pen. On the hood of the car, Connor watches as Reed expertly scribes down another symbol, near perfect lines intersecting with perfect circles, and hands it to Connor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Already understanding the motion, Connor activates it and watches in wonder as shining tendrils or frost bleed off the paper and onto his hand, crawling in mesmerizing spirals. The rune slowly fades off of the paper, the only remaining proof it was ever there being the gentle indents the pen made.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed takes the paper and seems to inspect it for a second. He looks back up and says, “Wait, this means we can rune up your jacket!” Connor’s jacket is already runed, he finds. There’s some stilted but delicate stitching over the breast on the internal fabric, and Connor can almost see Hank trying his hardest to stitch it right, a small needle positioned meticulously between his fingers. <br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Protection rune,” Reed murmurs. “I got one of those on my jacket, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor’s chin scrunches. It’s been a while since he’s seen Hank, and he’s pleased to find his approximated memories of him still exist in the Initial folder. He’ll see him again. He knows it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed holds out the paper and pen to Connor, this time. “You guys write like printers. Does that mean you can inscribe like one, too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Runes cannot be manufactured, printed, or stamped. They have to be hand crafted in order to work-- there’s some theory behind it, about it needing the magic of the inscriber, but it seems to be a fairly new site of exploration. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor looks up a rune online that </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> fold the paper in half. When he finishes, though, it fails to call or sing for that hidden well of power in him. He tries activating it-- but nothing. He hands it to Reed, who tries to activate it as well, but nothing has yet to happen except it bending in Reed’s tight grasp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you just copy it off of a photo or something?” Reed says. “It could be some shit about it not really being </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> who’s inscribing it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again, with the theory, but he doesn’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span>how</span>
  </em>
  <span> to inscribe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed digs through his pockets once more and pulls out a napkin, and smoothly scribes a rune on top of the crumpled paper. Handing it to Connor, he says, “Take that home tonight and pick it apart with Hank or something. I’m sure he’ll be able to tell you all about protection runes-- but once you think you’ve got it down, try inscribing it and setting it off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s an odd quality in Reed’s voice as Connor takes the paper napkin, as if he’s embarrassed to be giving it to him. Connor inspects the rune, and it’s a protection rune, just like he’d implied, but after a quick search about it there’s a possible connotation to the specific arrangement of shapes. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Possible</span>
  </em>
  <span> connotation. Though, with how Reed’s been looking at him and how many of the other realities have slanted, it wouldn’t be completely out of left field if Reed gives him a rune usually used for those… amorously connected. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed looks away, face dusted with pink, and it merely confirms Connor’s suspicion and does not make him look away abashedly, too. He pockets the rune, uttering a simple thanks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Reed can respond, Connor’s already blinked and slipped through the reality and into the dark purgatory of the switch, rune on his mind. The living electricity fades from his limbs, but Connor only regrets the loss for a moment before he lands on his feet once again.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>magic au! yay :) had some fun writing this, sorry it's late. Got preoccupied yesterday and never really sat down to write it . But here we are! Gonna try and get tonight's entire chapter out today as well. Cheers! thanks for reading :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Voices in My Head</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He looks to Reed, to say something-- but Amanda stands behind him, watching him with a clinical gaze.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Hello, Connor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor’s eyes blink open, wild, but there’s no one in front of him. He peeks around his area, but there’s no one besides Reed and a handful of forensic scientists milling around an alleyway. There’s a body in there, something whispers, and the scene is almost so familiar he believes he’s genuinely back in the familiar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He inhales-- and he realizes the air content is different, and after a GPS ping he finds he isn’t even in Detroit. He’s in Chicago, and he can feel the cool air that Lake Michigan funnels through the towering structures. It has a significantly stronger bite to it, having nothing but docks to break it, while Detroit has some stretch of land between Erie and St. Claire to disperse it somewhat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A quick glance around him verifies the information. Connor can’t help but be disappointed. He’s never left Michigan, or Detroit for that matter, but he was hoping to do it on his own terms, maybe with Hank to force him to take some time off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He must say, though… Chicago has its own beauty. Much of its architecture retains its rustic styles from when it was rebuilt after the Chicago Fire, but he can see that several were torn down to make room for cutting-edge skyscrapers that seem to touch the heavens. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Currently, he stands next to one of the stone and brick buildings built nearly fireproof to compensate and it’s damp little alley, surrounded by police holo-tape and swarmed with squad cars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The murder took place in the city, and in one of the more populated areas during the day. But that’s not what Connor’s concerned with anymore, no, because stepping around the corner is an asymmetrical shawl draped around dark shoulders and a wry smirk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Amanda’s lips pinch into a smile, and Connor feels like his chassis is caving in atom by atom. Reed doesn’t regard her, likely sees right through her, and a quick reference to his systems later finds that Amanda’s code is very, very different from the Initial. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He brushes by memory files as he sifts, and nearly every one is tinged with worry, restraint, and cutting fear. Somehow, the Zen Garden deteriorated just like it had in the Initial, but Amanda had made it out; and with no Garden to govern Connor from, she decided to invade Connor’s life other ways. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s deviant, that much is true-- but he may as well not be, not with Amanda here. He swallows as Amanda regards him with cool eyes looking him up and down slowly. Instead of chewing him out as he suspected, however, her eyebrows draw up in faux concern. “Is something the matter, Connor?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course not.” Connor responds automatically as horror soaks his chassis. “I am functioning at full capacity.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nods, eyes looking out over the city and at the lines of tape. “I’m glad.” she says. “While being deployed to Chicago was an unforeseen complication, you are doing efficient work. Please do not disappoint me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor realizes her dilemma, now. Without the ability to aggressively micromanage Connor’s brief anti-deviancy period, she’s now taken to controlling </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>-- and there’s nothing he can do about it unless he digs into the toxic Zen Garden and unburies her code.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She disappears from view. Resigning himself to her grueling watch, Connor turns on his heel and towards Reed, who dons a pair of rubber gloves as he kneels and pokes around the scene. When Connor’s sleek dress shoes come to rest in front of him, he peers upwards and wipes some hair out of his face with the inside of his elbow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Glad you finally stopped admiring the view and decided to do your job,” Reed says, barely glancing at him. “Vic’s in the alley. Go check him out. I’ll be with you in a sec.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor moves to say something, but the sound gets stopped in his throat. On his HUD, options row themselves up to be chosen, and he sours. Amanda. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t defy, he wouldn't dare. Picking one of the more neutral options, he simply says, “Alright, Detective,” and is on his way to the scene, avoiding looking at Amanda's looming presence that lurks in every corner.<br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he’ll find some comfort in the routine investigation-- but Amanda won’t even let him have that. Every turn, every choice is lined up neatly in front of him, with an unsaid threat if he doesn't comply, just a cold gripping of his biocomponents. <br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Amanda watches keenly. Every move is monitored carefully for disobedience- deviancy. She’s likely very aware of Connor’s deviant status but believes it can be contained, and as it is? His deviancy is being contained with terrifying efficiency.<br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blood analysis’s results feed to him, and he turns to Reed to inform him but he finds the options laid out again and his vocal modulator locked until he chooses one of his pre-scripted choices. A curse tries to slip past his lips, but it's cut off. Amanda, from her spot outside the alley, narrows her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit, this guy was an ice junkie?” Reed says. “Didn’t think that shit made it too far out of Detroit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t-- red ice exists where thirium is abundant, which makes Detroit the prime manufacturing spot due to its status as the Android patient zero. In other metropolitan cities, like the one he stands in right now, androids are less popular and more scare to come by where they can be stolen, murdered, or hacked. This man is just an outlier, likely getting the illicit substance from a contact that stays out of town.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that he can actually tell Reed that. The most he can say is, “It likely came from far outside the city, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed looks at him strangely, with some odd combination of pity and something warm, and Connor feels some of Amanda's frigid grip loosen from his chest at the sight. <br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>They wrap up the scene nicely, with a suspect based on the victim’s red ice usage. The mission Amanda has given him to solve the case won’t resolve until the man is caught and convicted, but it’s good enough right now for Connor as he trails behind Reed as they exit the scene.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Amanda watches with hawk-eyes, inspecting for any unauthorized interactions with Reed. He makes it clear he will not engage out of a shock of cold fear, but Amanda sends warning and whispers to him to behave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s suffocating, terrifying. He lets himself be glad this is not his reality, that Amanda is very gone and Hank is around and he still lives in Detroit. <br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Connor,” Reed grouses, “Not that I fuckin’ care, but why the hell have you been so… stiff, recently? S’like you got rods through your joints or something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somewhat touched by Reed’s reluctant care, Connor suddenly feels compelled to answer-- at all. However, Amanda is strict with this modulator and doesn’t allow a word to slip past his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Behave.</span>
  </em>
  <span> She whispers, her voice echoing around Connor’s systems like a ghost. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t incur punishment</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t imply that the punishment will be from her-- but Connor has never gone so far as to displease her so terribly that she’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>punish</span>
  </em>
  <span> him, unless her micromanagement is punishment for deviating in the first place. <br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can see Reed’s patience and goodwill thinning by the second, and if the reality shifts have told him anything it’s that Reed can sometimes genuinely care. He doesn’t want to give this Reed a reason not to-- but he doesn’t have a choice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His systems tremble and his hands begin to shake involuntarily as Amanda materializes and steps her way around him, as if inspecting a new cadet or a particularly expensive piece of art. Her shawl sways in a simulated breeze Connor cannot feel, but he <em>does</em> feel the way her immaculate nails dig into his chin when she grabs it, lighting his tactile sensors on fire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t move, not as Amanda grabs his chin or presses the sharp ends of her nails into his jaw. She moves her hand, and Connor’s head has no choice but to move with it, tilting to the side as she examines Connor’s face. He swallows, and Amanda’s eyes flick to the simulated motion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bits of fear that seep through his chassis seem to hang in the air between them. His cooling fans kick on, his processors get stuck in loops of </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t touch me don’t touch me don’ttouchme--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Amanda sneers and places her open palm on Connor’s chest, and motions the removal of his thirium pump regulator. She is not physical and cannot disengage the vital biocomponent, but something sparks through his systems and cuts through his looping processes to strike in the regulator port.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels the internal clasp disengage and the regulator rotate out of place with his trembling. His eyes, locked on Amanda’s icy brown, begin to water as he tries and fails to twitch, to move, to move at all, look anywhere but </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>she’s killing me I’m </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>dyi</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>ng </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>help please stop</span>
  </em>
  <span>, his terrified systems cry into the face of an indifferent being, shaking as his regulator stays out of place and his heart hammers stuttering thunderclaps in his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Behave</span>
  </em>
  <span>, her voice says, and she disappears. Connor’s hand snaps to his regulator and pushes it back into place as he falls to his hands and knees, limbs weak and chest twitching irregular beats as the regulator struggles to compensate for lost time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He barely hears Reed drop down next to him, and a calloused hand is placed on his back. Vague phrases of desperation and confusion and </span>
  <em>
    <span>help!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Flutter past his audio processors never to be inspected. All he can think of is Amanda. Amanda, Amanda, please, god, Amanda, no.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands sink through the concrete right as he processes Reed’s plea of, </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re gonna be okay,</span>
  </em>
  <span> as the last few jitters of the internal attack wrack his body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he blinks and the world disappears, he looks to Reed, to say something-- but Amanda stands behind him, watching with a clinical, uncaring gaze. Always watching.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Behave.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>ouchie :( hate to do that to you, Connor, but in order for you to face your fears, you gotta recognize them first. Thanks for reading and your patience with these updates. Hope you enjoyed, see you tomorrow. :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Would You Be So Kind</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>But all he really sees are the eyes of a photograph overturned on the kitchen table, eternally staring.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Connor’s hand slams to the counter and he narrowly drops the knife before it swings astray and slices off his finger. It clatters to the countertop and a cacophony of sound, and the sharp transition from a system in disarray to a system in rest makes his biocomponents skip and his audio processors ring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A shout sounds from down an unfamiliar hallway, “Everything okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s Hank, and Connor feels some of the static fade. “I’m alright!” he shouts, picking the knife back up. Hank’s here-- but they’re in a house that is </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> not the one Connor remembers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a recipe on his HUD, whole grain pasta and chicken with a basil sauce, and he was in the middle of slicing the chicken breast for ease of consumption. He picks the knife up and resumes the motion, soothing his racing processors and trying very hard to completely forget what had just transpired. <br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor doesn’t cook often, at least in the Initial, but he’s starting to think it may be a good hobby to pick up. The repetitive actions, the recipe, it’s all quite mindless when he gets into it, and with the reassurance that Hank is here in some capacity, well. It’s a little comforting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not long after, Connor’s prepared enough food to feed four people, though he’s sure Hank will enjoy the leftovers. Speaking of-- Hanks comes plodding out of the hallway in one of his ridiculous shirts and peers faux-stealthily over Connor’s shoulder and at the food. </span>
</p><p><span>“Smells fuckin’ great, son,” Hank says, clapping Connor roughly on the back. “You don’t gotta do this, you know. We can</span> <span>feed ourselves.”</span></p><p>
  <span>The ‘we’ rings alarms, but he doesn’t have time to inspect it before the doorbell rings a cheery chime, as opposed to the shrill shriek of Hank’s usual buzzer. Hank, with his hands digging around in cabinets presumably for plates and cups, motions for Connor to answer it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only now, as he steps over the small entrance mat in socks, does Connor realize how casually he’s dressed, clearly not expecting any sort of important company. Or company that would be upset that he’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans. (A t-shirt… this is his first time in a t-shirt.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls the front door open. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow,” Reed says. “Smells great.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the sound of the door opening, a scattering of clicks on the hardwood floor begin to approach as Sumo’s heavy claws tap in his approach for a greeting. Reed’s eyes light up in the dim lighting of the front porch as he steps inside and bends over to give Sumo his much-desired pets. Connor silently shuts the door behind them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A short figure comes bounding out of the hallway, socked feet pounding on the floor with a delighted shout of, “Uncle Gavin!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor’s systems stall while Gavin says, “I’m not your damn uncle, Cole.” but gives him a quick embrace anyways. The young boy tries to pull Sumo off of Reed in order for better access, but Sumo’s heavy weight holds true like a barricade of stone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s what he meant by ‘we’, then. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He observes Cole almost numbly, analyzes his facial structure fourteen times and juxtaposes it against Hank’s, his ex-wife’s, and the framed photograph that had seldom been kept anywhere but face-down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This Cole is… somewhat older. Approximately three years older, in fact, which would make him nine years old at the time of the switch. He’s bouncy and springy, full of childish and boyish youth, and somehow that energy seems to infiltrate the air and make the entire house livelier, but there's some sort of dissonance in Connor's processors, something not quite coming to terms with him. <br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you bring it?” Cole asks with hushed urgency. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding sagely, Reed reaches into his inner jacket pocket and extracts a small piece of electronics-- a Game Boy Color, and hands it to Cole. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cole regards it with a glint in his eye, shining reverence. It’s endearing how much the arguably old technology fills the boy with wonder and excitement, and when he removes the cartridge with a choked, joyous whisper of, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pokemon!</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Connor can’t help but smile weakly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Give it back before I leave!” Reed shouts after Cole as he races away to go boot up the game. Once he’s out of earshot, Reed says, “That kid, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor has no clue what he’s alluding to, so he just smiles and nods. Reed’s soft eyes slide to Connor as his hand comes to a rest on the small of his back, the heat of his palm seeping through Connor’s t-shirt, and Connor lets himself be led out of the entrance of the house. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank peers over from the kitchen table, and at Cole who has taken residence up on the couch with the game in his clenched hands. There’s immediately a tension formed between them, but he watches Hank war with himself for a moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks for lending him the Game Boy for tonight,” Hank says cordially as he sets a plastic cup with dogs in it down on the table. “Never stops talking about how the new games aren’t as good as the old ones.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“S’the least I can do,” Reed says. “Thanks for inviting me over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Hank had been the one to invite Reed, then? Assuming that Reed is somehow romantically involved with this reality’s Connor, and Hank and Reed have a strained relationship, it’s an awfully kind olive branch to extend. But he’s glad he cooked, and not Hank. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor separates himself from Reed and grabs the bowl of pasta from the counter and sets it on the table while Hank grabs two beers from the fridge and offers one to Reed. It is taken begrudgingly, but no mutterings about Hank’s alcoholism slip past his lips-- but Connor remembers that with Cole, that likely never even happened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cole… is a difficult concept for Connor to process, even with him standing in front of him now. He can’t help but think the word, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ghost</span>
  </em>
  <span>, as Cole fiddles around with the Game Boy, eyes alight and alive, not like they seem on the inked paper of a photograph. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It feels as if Cole will whisk away any moment, and it is deeply unsettling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the prospect of food, Cole sets the game down and peeks around the sofa, and with a wave of his hand, Hank beckons him over. He seats himself snugly in front of the plate with the dog cup with Sumo under his legs, and immediately begins to scoop pasta onto his plate before anyone else has even sat down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The food is distributed between three of them, Connor sitting as neutrally as he can while the others begin to eat. He’s glad to find everyone enjoying the food, even if some of it had already been done before he arrived. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed’s eyes flick to the salt. He begins to reach for it, but Hank grabs it before his arm really even makes it above the table, and Connor suspects he very purposely sets it down far out of Reed and Connor’s reach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A smirk plays at Hank’s lips, and Connor refrains from rolling his eyes. How is it that with a nine-year-old at the table, Hank can somehow be the most childish one eating. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cole reaches for the pasta spoon, lanky arms just long enough to grasp it over the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed snorts. “Eat any faster and you’ll choke, kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eat any slower and you’ll starve,” Cole replies smoothly, his motion to get himself more pasta completely uninterrupted. “Dad, can you pass the chicken, please?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Very visibly holding back a laugh, Reed holds the hand that had once reached for salt over his mouth at the unbotheredness of Cole’s retort. Cole is very sharp, Connor realizes, and likely learned responses like that directly from Reed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Cole-- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops himself. Cole exists here, and he will not disappear into thin air like some sort of poltergeist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few moments of watery mirth, Reed’s eyes fix back onto the salt shaker seated next to Hank’s plate, the owner of which purposely stays very oblivious as he passes the plate of chicken to Cole. Connor’s eyes meet Cole’s for a moment-- and he’s struck by the similarity to Hank’s-- and Cole gives Connor a wink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Intrigued, Connor winks back, to which Cole returns with a very slow blink, presumably a ‘double-wink’ or something equally as inane. To bring the exchange full circle, Connor blinks back, but all he really sees are the eyes of a photograph overturned on a mantle, staring unblinkingly back at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinks out of the reverie as Cole grins, and Connor feels somewhat quelled that at least one person is enjoying the dinner, tension-free. Meanwhile, Reed begins to stare so hard at the salt that Connor suspects he thinks he can move it telekinetically across the table, or maybe even cause it to burst into flames. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t, obviously, and Connor opens his mouth to politely ask Hank to hand Reed the salt-- but Hank pipes up and says, “How was school today?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed’s face reddens dramatically, and Connor entertains the thought that he may himself combust at that moment, until he grits out caustically, “Hank... would you be so kind as to </span>
  <em>
    <span>pass me the goddamn salt</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Very poorly feigning surprise, Hanks sets his silverware down. “Aw, shoot,” he laments, surprisingly PG. “Sorry. Hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.” Reed very nearly snarls as he snatches the salt out of Hank’s hand, holding it possessively as if it were a precious metal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He brings the salt over his pasta but freezes. Slowly, he grasps the top of the shaker and it nearly lifts right off, suspiciously loose as Reed grasps it tightly in his palm. He whips to Hank, who has a barely concealing grin on his face, and Connor jumps up and reaches across the table to catch the lid mid-air as it is chucked at Hank’s head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor’s mouth opens as he slams a hand on the table and prepares to chastise the both of them, but he’s interrupted by a wheezing laugh from Cole’s side of the table. His face is red as he fails to contain his laughter at the entire exchange, sliding down into his chair as his torso fails to support him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The electric tension eases and everyone’s stiff posture laxens somewhat. Connor seats himself back in his chair but sends searing glances to Hank and Reed, telling them to,</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Telling them</span>
</p><p>
  <span>to </span>
  
  <em>
    <span>Behave</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor sinks through the chair as the delicate tremors begin to seize his hands, and the blackness of the in-between is darker than the space between the stars. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>cole! but connor doesn't believe it! awe, it hurts just a tiny bit-- but look at them being a family! it's totally a-ok. </p><p>Thanks for reading! see you tomorrow. :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Till the End of Time</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>None of the instances have gone this far out of Connor's time.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>This is certainly new. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s of flesh and blood, again, to start, and it’s no less jarring than it was the time before. It’s a whole new system of thought and motion, and it takes him a solid moment to remember he has to breathe and blink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that’s not what’s so new, no-- it’s the very odd situation he seems to be in. It’s a conference of sorts, akin somewhat to Congress, and he finds himself seated in the front of a large stone and marble hall, among men dressed in draping white cloth that reaches to the tops of their sandal-clad feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor looks across the room, at the men seated in rows that regard him with clear eyes. He recognizes none of them. He glances to his left, and beside him are two more men, though one has more layers and color in his clothing included, and one does not . </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man between them is swathed in cloth, in varying shades of red and purple-- extravagant and expensive, he notes. His clothing is gilded along it’s hems with sparkling gold, but whether it’s paint or actual golden threads is far beyond Connor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seems as though he’s shifted quite farther than two years in this reality, and if the dress and organization of the people in front of him mean anything, he would have to say he’s somehow found himself in Ancient Rome, and in the middle of a senatorial scene. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, this iteration of himself only existed as a human in Ancient Rome? Discreetly, he checks his own clothing and finds it similar to the man dressed fancier than the Senate, but less than the man between them, with red material that flows smoothly over his shoulder and over his side, under his arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor internally curses his current inability to connect to some sort of database or search the internet for context. If this is a Roman Senate, and he is a part of it, but not a Senator or Emperor if his hunch about the man next to him being the current Roman Emperor is correct, that would make him a… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn it! He can’t place it, and he irrationally scolds his lack of foresight to do research on human history beforehand. That would make this much easier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least, in a human body, Amanda couldn’t exist in his systems, so that eases him just a mote. He runs his hands over the fibers of his (toga? Stola?) and absently watches them shift under his fingers, taking a moment to feel the unrivaled sense of touch humans seem to be privy to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man with the purple cloth next to him says something that uneases the Senate, making many of the men mutter among themselves. The other man in red glances over at Connor, but Connor purposely avoids his gaze in the case that the man gets suspicious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a gentle roar outside the stone walls-- likely some rain, he concludes-- and a brief crack of thunder and lightning illuminate the tiled floor and the white togas of the Senators. The mumbling subsides as the other man in red begins to speak, the Emperor's careful eye watching keenly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, large bronze doors swing open dramatically, and the static sound of rain intensifies as an armor-clad figure stumbles in. Immediately, the Senate falls into disarray at the interruption, one man even shouting at the clatter of metal as the newcomer narrowly fails keeping himself upright and falls to the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some senators express their concern but very few make a move toward the man as he scrabbles back to his feet and pulls his helmet off wet, bloodied hair. There’s a gash on his head somewhere, the rain water pulling it down in russet streaks down his face and over a </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> familiar scar on his nose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emperor!” Reed shouts, unsteady on his feet. His eyes are crazed, and from what skin Connor can see, he’s covered with day to week old bruises almost everywhere on his body. Connor may not know much about this civilization, but what Reed has just done must be fairly taboo. Nevertheless, Reed continues just as loudly as before. “Emperor, there is danger! My general, he’s planning to--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Silence!” The Emperor demands, rising from his seat. “Why do you, a low soldier, come to obstruct the proceedings of the Senate?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor observes curiously from his seat next to the Emperor, who makes an imposing figure in the dim light. The giant bronze doors behind Reed take waves of heavy rain, pounding against the metal as distant flashes of lightning shine dully against the leather and bronze of Reed’s armor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My Emperor,” Reed says, wiping bloody water out of his eyes with his damaged helmet in hand. “My general is planning something heinous against you, and he’s garnering support within his own troops! He plans to render your rule obsolete by force. When I found out I--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man to the opposite of the Emperor speaks up. “Why did you not go to your senior officer, soldier? Surely you could have saved us the interruption.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed’s eyes flash with anger. “My general </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> my senior officer!” he snarls. “My Emperor, I implore  you to take caution-- General Vinictus is planning a coup!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More mutterings wave through the Senate at Reed’s words, and Reed looks around desperately and somewhat angrily as no one moves to truly acknowledge his words. Senators glance disbelievingly at one another, and the man with red who spoke earlier speaks again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Delusional, My Emperor. That is the only word that comes to mind. I urge you to disregard the words of this common soldier.” he says, peering down his nose at Reed. Something hot and searing stews in Connor as he hears the dismissal. Reed wouldn’t lie-- nor is he delusional. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before the Emperor can dismiss him, Connor speaks up. “I’ll hear him out, Emperor.” he says. “It would be wise to address his concerns, lest he be right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed’s eyes shoot to him, wide. “Consul--” he starts, but the Emperor raises his hand and silences him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please do so outside of the Curia Julia. I do not care where, but if you must take care of him right now this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> the place.” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” Connor replies, standing and making his way across the large tiled floor. Eyes follow him as he steps, and he tries his best to ignore them as he approaches Reed, who barely keeps himself upright as he drips rainwater onto the intricate flooring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed’s eyes stay wide as Connor approaches, and Connor can’t help but be unnerved by the unusually reverent look, somehow replacing the cheeky grins and dark eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nonetheless, Connor motions for Reed to follow him into the torrential rain. Reed follows reluctantly, but Connor is internally excited to feel the rain on his skin, even if this may be a harsh first experience. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they step out into the rain, Connor is pleased to find it lightens somewhat as they work to shut the bronze doors to the outside weather. Still, Reed rarely takes his awed eyes off of Connor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They step past the threshold and into the cold rain, and it takes Connor a moment to acclimate-- but when he does, he has to stop and stand still for a moment, to feel the thousands of tiny drops hit his skin and his clothes, soaking them until they weigh heavy on his body. It’s completely unlike how it is when he is an Android, and it’s incredible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor doesn’t really know where to go, but his feet take him on a worn path past a dozen light brick buildings, until he comes to a stop in front of an admittedly impressive home, one floor and built around a courtyard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pressing on a door, it swings open under his fingers and they step into the marble floors and stucco walls. It’s very expensive, no doubt, and something tells Connor it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, Reed’s gaze moves from him to the building itself, but Connor, unnerved by Reed’s uncharacteristic silence and reverence, ushers him into what he assumes is a private bath and seats him down, eyeing the bruises and poorly healed lacerations on his arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For just a moment, Connor follows those familiar paths again to a selection of other togas, and quickly undresses himself and re-dresses in something dry and much more austere than the red garment he had on before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed’s expression turns from surprised to confused as Connor retrieves washcloths from some wooden shelving, and a small bowl of water. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When The Emperor said, ‘take care of him’... I don’t think he meant it like that, Consul.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Consul must be his position in the Senate, he realizes. This Reed doesn’t even know his name-- and if their names follow social conventions of the time, Connor might not know his own name, either. But the joke does not fall on deaf ears, as Connor smiles, relieved that maybe Reed won’t remain as awestruck as he has been. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor nods as he motions for Reed to sit on one of two stools positioned next to one another, unsure of what has possessed him to care for the cuts and blood on Reed. “I know, but I would rather you not die before you can tell me what you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed cracks a smile as he sits down, but winces as he lowers. His hand shoots to his side, and Connor already feels as if he knows Reed has a cracked rib. “I’m more resilient than you think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that so?” Connor asks, trying to conceal his relief that Reed is somewhat normal. “We’ll have to see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed’s eyes certainly change qualities, from their brightness to something darker-- but not sinister. His pupils largen, his breathing picks up-- just like every other Reed that Connor has come across, he suspects. It’s almost intriguing how fast Reed is to latch on to him, in every instance he’s met him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minus the Initial, that is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Water drips from Reed’s hair, down the curve of his cheek and the divot above his chin, the low lamplight refracting within the crystal drop. The scar across his nose somehow seems fresh in the darkness-- but, it drips, oozes, and Connor realizes it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> fresh. He had recently received the cut, and the torrential rain had probably disturbed it so much that it didn’t have the time or ability to close until just now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor hesitantly sits himself in the other stool, and reaches over with the dampened cloth toward Reed’s face, and begins to gently wipe away grit and blood from the wound. Reed’s eyes flutter shut, and his eyebrows draw close when the cloth gets too close to the laceration. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly struck by the odd intimacy, Connor scrambles to break the odd silence. “What is your name, soldier?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gaius,” he murmurs, not even opening his eyes as he says it. “And you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor tries, struggles to spit out </span>
  <em>
    <span>Connor</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but it leaves his lips in a breath of, “Cassius,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed hums as Connor continues to wipe away blood from his face, reluctantly relaxed. Connor sinks into the work, moving up to his hairline where the bloody gash that streaked down his face lies, and begins to wipe away there, too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somewhere deep, Connor knows this is behavior unfit for a consul, but it’s not him-- it’s a different him-- and he can do what he wants. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that he wants to be this close to Reed, but nothing can really seem quite as inappropriate as Reed walking bare naked right in front of him-- so a little cleanup is hardly that bad. Additionally, Connor’s mind flicks back to when Reed had run his fingers through his hair, and makes a connection between that and what he’s doing now. Tit for tat, he concludes. This is only fair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed’s eyes crack open after a few more swipes and lazily follow the movement of Connor’s arm, then slide up the elbow and come to rest on Connor’s face, where they trail across his own nose and cheeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor can feel himself blush, unnerved by how involuntary it is, and he moves to a different spot at the bottom of Reed’s jaw where a nasty bruise resides, hoping the cold water will soothe the ache. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“R-Gaius,” he catches himself. “What happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed frowns. “When the General found out I knew what he was planning, he tried to keep me in the camp. He did--” he sneers. “--for a week. Finally managed to get out today, walked fucking miles for the goddamn Emperor to…” he juts his jaw as he stifles the ill words he was just about to speak of the Emperor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Connor says. It’s all he really </span>
  <em>
    <span>can </span>
  </em>
  <span>say. He’s surprised that Reed isn’t more vitriolic about the Emperor’s dismissal-- that he would even try to watch what he says. But then he realizes, as a consul, Connor is some kind counsel for the Emperor, and it’s likely Reed watches his words in fear they will get back to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was awfully foolish of him,” Connor admits, watching as Reed’s face slackens with surprise. “Even if it weren’t true, it would be better to at least confirm it’s invalidity first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Reed mumbles, searching Connor’s face. “But you believe me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor nods as he rinses the cloth in the wide bowl he had grabbed, and when he turns back he’s taken aback by the vulnerable sincerity in Reed’s expression, his eyes shining a weathered green in the low light. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Connor reaches to begin attending to Reed’s arms, a tanned hand comes to grab his wrist, gently setting it in Connor’s lap. Confused, Connor searches for a reason, but all he gets is the open look on Reed’s face as his lips part minutely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, Reed’s hands leave Connor’s wrist and drift toward his own torso, where he bites his lip and gently begins to unclasp the bronze and leather tunic, slowly exposing more swaths of tanned skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Connor feels that familiar sinking sensation, his eyes are securely locked on that thin stretch of skin revealed behind leather and red cloth, bruised and beaten, yet somehow glowing in the dim space.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed’s eyes never leave his. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>sorry this is so late! it got really out of hand 'cause I was looking stuff up a lot and kind of having a lot of fun writing... but it was slow fun and now it's a day late lol. but it's long, so! gonna try and get the today's out soon. Thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Late Night Thoughts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Connor shamelessly exploits his knowledge that Reed tends to secretly enjoy intellectual conversation in order to further clear up his theories about what is happening-- and he may get a little more than he bargained for.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Connor’s opticals take a moment to adjust to the lighting of the room, but once they do, he almost wishes he hadn’t.</p><p>It’s nothing sinister or gory, but the rows upon rows of filing cabinets make him uneasy under the buzzing incandescent light bulbs. This is the near-ancient (though, ancient seems like poor word choice, considering he just dropped in from ancient Rome) DPD filing room. </p><p>For a filing room, it’s horrifyingly disorganized. From where he’s seated criss-cross on the warped tile flooring, he turns his body and briefly flicks through the closest opened drawer, and there is genuinely no rhyme or reason to any other files in the cabinet. </p><p>It’s appalling, and for an android who functions best in technological systems and digital filing? It’s a certified nightmare, needing to physically read the printed and written word. Contrary to popular belief, androids don’t read the written word much faster than humans-- the translation from letter, to word, to translation, to idea is a complex one, and one that requires a careful balance of processor usage and optical unit speed. </p><p>“Don’t look so pathetic,” a tired voice says from behind him. “You don’t get fucking tired.”</p><p>Connor glances at the voice, and it’s Reed, obviously, with dark shadows under his eyes and a truly exhausted disposition. In his lap is seated a stack of manila folders, faded and undoubtedly musty, and he flicks through pages to determine their contents. Judging by Reed’s posture, they’ve likely been at this for hours. </p><p>It’s approaching 1:15 in the morning, and Connor momentarily entertains the idea of convincing Reed to pack up for the night-- but there’s a memory file being pulled up, and it’s of Fowler saying, <em> and I better not see your faces until it’s fucking done </em>, and Connor drops the proposition. </p><p>This is some sort of punishment, then, and they’re not to leave until they’re done sorting the filing basement. It’s technically illegal to force workers to stay like this, but Fowler likely did it under the assumption that they’d know when to stop. Instead, it seems they’ve decided to actually heed the order-- or to at least work at it until they couldn’t, as it’s likely that not getting far today would roll the work over into the next day, and the next. </p><p>“Androids can’t get physically tired, Detective.” he says as he begins to resume the tasks that this instance has started. “But our processors can obtain a distinct strain after hours of tasks and no rest.”</p><p>Reed yawns and simply shakes his head as he puts the newly organized set of files back in the drawer they had been taken from. Pushing himself sorely to his feet, he pulls another drawer open-- but instead of the drawer opening, the handle pops off. </p><p>Connor hides a snicker behind his hand, while Reed looks at him strangely, likely too tired to comment on it. Reed just digs his fingers into the holes left over from the screws and wrenches it open with a hellish shriek of metal. </p><p>As he pulls out a new stack of files to sort, Connor turns back to his own pile, and the words on the page start to seem indecipherable and his processors strain and struggle to try and make the connection. He blinks, and it doesn’t resolve. </p><p>He looks at Reed, who looks downright miserable and about ready to break an overhead light if it keeps flickering. His outline is somewhat blurred and colors begin to blend-- an overexertion of his optical processors, surely. </p><p>Reed looks up at him and blinks slowly. “You got something to say, tin can?”</p><p>Connor is embarrassingly slow to respond, his CPU wading through soup. “Would your exhaustion make you more prone to intellectual conversation, Gavin?”</p><p>Reed blinks, and Connor realizes he’d addressed him by the first name-- but there’s a moment, a fleeting second, where the green in Reed’s eyes sharpens like they had before the dancing instance, when Reed had been at his most blatantly clever. </p><p>“Depends on your definition of intellectual,” he says, but it seems like he’s chosen one of two options-- and the other was just, <em> yes </em>. But he still sees that shine, that same desire for intellectual stimulation that the extravagant, suave Reed had, and Connor doesn’t want to pass the opportunity to sort his thoughts with an outside party.</p><p>“What are your thoughts on the Infinite Universes Theory?”</p><p>This time, Reed’s strange look is very blatant. “What do you mean?” he says, closing the folder. The shine intensifies, and Connor knows he’s caught the interest of that part of Reed that secretly craves this type of conversation. </p><p>“I’m asking for your opinion of the theory, Detective.”</p><p>“Yeah, I fuckin’ got that,” Reed rolls his eyes. “But why?”</p><p>Connor shrugs, idly fiddling with the stiff edge of a folder. “Humor me.”</p><p>Mumbling something under his breath that Connor can’t pick out due to the buzzing of the old light bulbs in the room, Reed pulls the pile he had just grabbed off of his lap and sets it next to him as he cracks his back and leans back onto the side of a cabinet. Pursing his lips, he says, “Well, it’s a theory. That’s all it is. I don’t really have an opinion on it ‘cause I don’t know that much about it. I’m gonna ask again: why?”</p><p>“Food for thought,” Connor says. “Say I had the opportunity to jump into alternate realities at random.”</p><p>Reed nods, obviously intrigued, as his eyes start to sharpen and lock on. Miraculously, his head tilts downward as he considers his words and Connor gets a flash of the aristocratic gaze and stature. “Ok, I’m listening.”</p><p>“And say, that in every different universe I landed in -- which were at random -- I met you. What would that mean?”</p><p>“How long are you in these universes?”</p><p>He tilts his head. “An hour at most.”</p><p>“That’s impossible,” Reed says instantly.</p><p>Connor’s brows furrow as he turns on his backside to better face Reed. “What do you mean?”</p><p>Reed bites his lip, eyes darting tiredly around as he contemplates. “It’s called ‘Infinite’ for a reason. By implying that there’s infinite universes it also implies that every possibility exists in equal proportions.” He gestures to himself. “If you actually appeared in random universes, it’s unlikely that I’d exist in every single one, and in the ones I <em> did </em> exist in I’d find it difficult to believe you just happened to be in my vicinity. I could be anywhere in the world--”</p><p>“Like Chicago.” Connor says before his straining system filters can stop it.</p><p>“Uh, yeah, like Chicago-- I could be anywhere. Literally <em> anywhere </em>, and the chances of me being in any place at one given time are equal, because the chances for me to be in those places are infinite.”</p><p>“What about more probable situations? Wouldn’t you be more likely to show up in those, and I more likely to find you there?”</p><p>Reed’s jaw juts as he says, “How would you ever know what’s more probable? If the theory’s true, the only ‘probable’ situation is the one you know, here. It could be more probable that I’m currently sitting on a beach-- but probability doesn’t even apply to infinity.”</p><p>“Explain,” Connor says, leaning forward. He’s incredibly intrigued by this side of Reed-- but what he’s saying is equally, if not more intriguing.</p><p>A moment of silence pervades the filing basement as Reed rolls his neck, rubbing at it with one of his hands. “Say you have a bag of marbles, right? And you want to find the probability you pick out a blue marble. The thing is, you have an <em> infinite </em> number of marbles, and infinite colors to choose from. You can’t just pick out the same blue marble every single time. Maybe once, if you’re lucky, but again after that? It doesn’t make sense.”</p><p>It doesn’t. “But what if I <em> had </em> picked out that blue marble every time?”</p><p>“You mean-- you’d seen me in every single one?”</p><p>“More than just seeing.” Connor says, frowning. “Talking, noticing commonalities between the versions of you.”</p><p>Reed shoves his hands in his jacket pockets.“I don’t know what to say. It’s impossible. Would you ever meet yourself, in this ‘thought experiment’?”</p><p>He shakes his head. “I would be inhabiting the bodies of that universe’s me.”</p><p>A sharp guffaw that gets lost in the metal maze of cabinets, and Reed nearly doubles over with the force of it. Connor recoils from the sound as Reed says, “Okay, I know I said seeing me in every one was impossible, but that? That’s just fuckin’ ludicrous.” At Connor’s puzzled look, he continues, pointing at him with an open hand. “It’s unlikely for <em> me </em> to exist in every one-- what about <em> you </em>? If you were truly hopping around a buncha Connor’s bodies at random, what about the universes where you don’t exist, or the universes that you do, but I don’t? Infinite possibilities-- and there’s an equal chance you both exist and don’t in every universe.”</p><p>“I couldn’t inhabit a universe where I don’t exist, Reed.” Connor says with a tinge of annoyance. If there’s no Connor in a universe, he couldn’t inhabit it.  “I wouldn’t exist-- and I couldn’t arrive.”</p><p>“So it’s less random than you thought,” Reed concludes for him, and the line of thought slowly dawns on Connor. “You would skip over universes you don’t exist in, yet in every one you still land in, I’m right there ready to have a conversation with your body-snatched twin.”</p><p>Nodding, Connor calculates and thinks, overworking his already abused processors as he forces them to keep analyzing the data. The realization comes in bits and pieces, and he also realizes Reed likely already came to this conclusion and had been walking Connor to it as well. “Then, the question becomes ‘Why are we <em> both </em> there?’, rather than why are <em> you </em> there?”</p><p>Reed clicks his tongue and shoots a lazy finger gun Connor’s way. “Bingo.” he whistles. </p><p>Connor lets the question sit for a few minutes-- more than a few minutes. </p><p>Some sort of universal constant, perhaps? As if the reality required them to be in the same place, and Reed to be inexplicably infatuated with him? But the infinite possibilities/equal probability theory Reed had explored earlier touts the fact that there’s an infinite number of realities where they <em> don’t </em> exist, and that would be paradoxical. It’s out of the question--  a paradox invalidates this, because paradoxes do not function in the real world and this is a real-world issue. At least for him.</p><p>So he thinks for a while-- long enough for Reed to begin to sort his disintegrating manila folders again, even after nearly dozing several times; but even as he continues the tedious task of manual sorting, every time Reed glances up at Connor, his eyes are still sharp and hungry under that haze of exhaustion. </p><p>Eventually, Connor admits, “I… don’t know.” he looks at Reed, who jokingly fans himself with a folder. “Do you?”</p><p>“No,” Reed says. “But I have an idea-- or two.”</p><p>Pushing his current pile aside, Connor scoots himself across the floor and closer to Reed, who forces himself upright into a more manageable position. He’s discarded his jacket, the leather lying in a heap at his feet, and his long sleeved shirt bunched up to his elbows. The yellowing light in the room makes the white material look bronze-gold, and in an odd lapse of judgement, Connor decides to shed his own jacket as well and toss it on top of Reed’s.</p><p>Reed regards him coolly, face carefully schooled. </p><p>“What are your ideas?” Connor asks finally, somewhat miffed that Reed required a verbal response to confirm his interest.</p><p>There’s a visible bob in Reed’s throat as he swallows, eyes shifting. “They’re fuckin' weird, not going to lie.”</p><p>Connor shakes his head. “Everything you’ve said has been very interesting, Reed. A little oddness isn’t going to be outrageous.”</p><p>An odd quality becomes of Reed’s face, his jaw jutting out and his cheeks flushing as Connor says it, but where usually Connor would be annoyed, he’s just curious as to what he has to say. </p><p>“Well,” Reed begins. “There’s the chance that in these universes, you and I would be the same thing. Like-- exactly the same damn thing, which would explain why I was always there when you were, but I’d like to think we’re actually our own people, so I wouldn’t give that theory too much thought. At least past the idea that if one, singular thing exists in a reality, it exists… full stop.”</p><p>Connor nods, but agrees with the idea that they would need to be the same person for that theory to work. “What else.”</p><p>An uptick in heart rate. “The second one’s… well. If the question goes from why was <em> I </em> there to why were we <em> both </em> always there, every time, there’s the chance we don’t exist without each other?” his voice tilts upwards at the end, as if he’s asking a question. “I make Connor, ‘Connor’, and you make ‘Gavin Reed’, Gavin Reed. Without me in close proximity, you can’t exist, and likely vise-versa.”</p><p>“So what -- I was made for you?” Connor asks, mildly horrified.</p><p>Reed shakes his head furiously. “No, nothing that fatalistic. Jesus… like a binary star system, right? We revolve around one another in near-perfect synchronicity, with perfect distances and masses to support the revolution.” he points his index fingers together vertically, before separating them sideways from one another and moving them in even circles around one another, visually emulating a binary star system. </p><p>“But if one of us is <em> just </em> out of place or just a little too big--” he moves on of the fingers out a little more, then sloppily shows them circling increasingly unevenly, until one of the fingers is forcefully flung out of the other’s orbit, sending them both out as far a Reed can reach. “-- their synced orbits get fucked up, and when it’s fucked up they <em> both </em> get flung irreparably into deep space, and in our case, stop existing.”</p><p>Connor blinks, watching as Reed slowly lowers his hands from the demonstration, shoulders bunching high. This is where Reed expects him to ridicule him, he thinks. Who would ridicule him for such an insightful observation? Truly, to identify a possibility like that while on his twenty-sixth hour of wakefulness is not a feat to be ignored-- or perhaps it's the sleep deprivation that allows for the conclusion? </p><p>“Incredible,” Connor says.</p><p>Reed unfurls from himself, lips slack in shock. He smiles after a moment, hesitant, but he says, “We would only exist in the context of each other. Some poetic shit, right?”</p><p>Connor recognizes the attempt to downplay his interest in the subject with humor, and disregards it. But something nags at him, now, something chewing at his biocomponents.</p><p>“Hey-- it’s some good fuckin’ <em> ‘food for thought’, </em> asshole. Where did that come from, anyways?”</p><p>“It was… just an idea I had.” Connor says, distractedly.</p><p>Reed laughs. “Some idea.”</p><p>As Reed pulls his pile of papers back to his lap, his intellectual scratch itched by the conversation, Connor drifts aimlessly for a few moments. </p><p>They only exist in the context of one another, then? It would make sense, like that star system Reed had demonstrated-- but what is his qualm about it? What’s wrong with the theory so bad that Connor is left searching the remains of their conversation for something to disqualify it, trying to squash the worm that’s needled it’s way into his systems?</p><p>What’s wrong? <em> What’s wrong? </em></p><p>And as Connor looks back at Reed, at his lasting scar, his laid-back asshole disposition hiding someone intelligent and heartfelt behind it’s callous exterior, he realizes just what’s <em> wrong-- </em> in a rush of caustic and bitter resentment that stampedes around Connor’s head and his rib cage and forces his already labored processors to handle the heat.</p><p>He exhales sharply. His lips curls. </p><p>Why <em> Reed? </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>BEEFY CHAPTER INCOMING!!! TAKE COVER!!!!</p><p>This is one of the most planned-ahead chapters in this fic. seriously. and it is HEAVY on the existentialist theories of reality and existence, so I hope it wasn't too hard to palate in 2.7k words. I put in Gav's metaphors in there to make their conversation make more sense-- but basically, they can't exist without each other, which is why Connor has been directly in Gav's vicinity in every reality he's visited.</p><p>the whole infinite possibilities/equal probability concept was fun to explore-- but keep in mind, I know jack shit about probability, or infinities, so it's likely very, very off from actual, real-life concepts. fun to think about, though! ;-)</p><p>we be playing fast and loose with reality, folks! thanks for tuning in! hope you enjoyed :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Tell Me Something I Don't Know</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>And Connor hates it. Hates the helplessness, the knowledge that he’s forever tied to a man who doesn’t have the capacity to care about him.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When reality switches and Connor falls through the floor once again, he doesn’t really notice it. He’s too zeroed in on the burning, bubbling sensation that makes him want to grab something and throw it very hard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He detachedly recognizes the sensation to be the same as the one where his limb had somehow worked of its own accord and backhanded Reed, but when the memory file is pulled up in association it doesn’t douse the fire. It feeds it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It stokes and spits when he sees that rage and disdain in Reed’s eyes, when he feels Reed shove and push him across Amanda’s garden and send gravel flying under crunched boots. When Hank shows back up, he feels something in him twist, gnarled and painful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slams the memory shut and shoves it back into the Initial file, ignoring the errors and warning of his system getting a little too warm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A door slams shut, and Connor doesn’t bother turning around. The conference room they’re in may be dark, but he knows who it is. Who it </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span> is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck is your problem, asshole?” Reed spits, stomping his way into Connor’s line of vision. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor feels himself rise uncharacteristically to match Reed’s level of vitriol, and he spits back. “What’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> problem? Bold words from you, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t fucking evade!” He runs a hand through his hair and grabs it at the back of his head, eyes manic. “Piece of shit--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels as if he should check this iteration’s memory logs, to try and deescalate the situation, but Reed takes a step towards and and makes a vicious grab for Connor’s jacket. Reed chokes back a pained gasp as Connor grips his wrist and puts it into a hold. “Don’t cast stones in a glass house, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up,” he hisses, ripping his hand away from Connor’s. “I don’t fucking care what your issue is, Connor. But you better fucking get used to being stuck with me-- because I’m not gonna tolerate some bot messing shit up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t-- but the corrosive, toxic rage scores his limbs with a vengeance and he decides that this Reed is as good as goddamn any to lay out his numerous and increasing grievances, the situations too similar. “I haven’t done a </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Reed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed scoffs, and throws his hands into the air. “It doesn’t fucking matter what you’ve done. What’s done is done-- but stop actively being a thorn in my goddamn side!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What gives you the impression </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m</span>
  </em>
  <span> the thorn, here?” Connor says, voice low. He doesn’t understand any of the context to this instance-- but the issue hits too close to home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He forces himself to look away from Reed when his biocomponents twist again. He swallows, and screws his eyes shut. What kind of cosmic joke is this, to be eternally stuck with Reed-- the man who spits and shoves and punches him? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not fair, that he’s stuck with </span>
  <em>
    <span>Reed</span>
  </em>
  <span> when he’s not even sure he’ll-- he’ll-- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want this either.” Reed says, voice low. “But you’re stuck with me. Get used to it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why you?” Connor asks. “Why </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> when I could be paired with--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed butts in before he can finish, and his voice cracks as he says, “Goddammit, Connor! Hank’s fucking gone!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--why is he stuck with Reed when he’s not even sure he’ll ever see Hank again? And not these strange facsimiles of Hank-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> Hank. The one that helped him deviate, that housed him after the revolution. His father figure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor had been avoiding it, the thought that there really is no return back to what he knows, but as he’s confronted with the fact that the only constant for the very far foreseeable future could just be Reed, he finds himself resenting the idea more and more. How could this happen? How could he be bound to him-- what cruelty is this?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed only exists with Connor, but the one person he really cares about -- who cares about </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> -- has no such reliance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not him?” Connor breathes, keeping his face hidden. “Why </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed doesn’t answer, but Connor doesn’t turn around to try and figure out his train of thought. Connor’s let himself be deluded with these kind, thoughtful versions of Reed that he’s become acquainted with. Sure, he might have a propensity to enjoy intellectual conversation-- but Reed will, and will always be a rude, antagonistic being. It’s in his nature, and Connor doesn’t want to be stuck with him. Not forever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor feels intimately targeted, and his previous connection of his circumstance as a cruel, cosmic joke rises to the forefront of his mind again. It’s not fair. Hank’s gone, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Reed</span>
  </em>
  <span> is still somehow the one who’s allowed to stay?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want this,” Connor says. “I don’t want </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears Reed breathe deep, but he still doesn’t say anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor laughs to himself. This is cruel, eternally tying enemies together. Reed doesn’t care about him-- not really. Reed despises him, even through the curtains of care and concern. Maybe not every time, but the one that really matters, the Initial, it’s an undeniable truth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Connor </span>
  <em>
    <span>hates </span>
  </em>
  <span>it. Hates the helplessness, the knowledge that he’s forever tied to a man who doesn’t have the capacity to care about him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hank’s gone,” Reed says. “Don’t get tied up about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor whips around to face him, incredulous and filled with a sudden flood of searing fire. “Don’t get ‘tied up’ about it? Don’t-- You’re going to tell me to not get </span>
  <em>
    <span>tied up</span>
  </em>
  <span> about the fact I’m not going to see the only person who ever cared about me again?” he struggles to keep his modulator even as his systems toss in tumultuous throws. It’s unbelievable, the lengths of which Reed’s lasting arrogance can extend, and he can’t believe he hadn’t realized it sooner. “You want to put </span>
  <em>
    <span>yourself</span>
  </em>
  <span> as a viable alternative, Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” Reed says. “I’m saying that you’re gonna have to fucking get used to it! This is your reality now, so stop throwing a fucking fit!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re insufferable,” Connor seethes. “Why you? Why does it have to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I don’t want it to be me, either!”  </span>
  </em>
  <span>Reed shouts, slamming his hand back onto the table. “I don’t want to be stuck with you. I don’t want Hank to be gone,” he swallows. “ I don’t want to be around you. I don’t want to work with you, look at you, </span>
  <em>
    <span>think</span>
  </em>
  <span> about you, even!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor watches Reed’s hand bunch into a tight fist, knuckles turning white. Reed’s stress levels are astronomical, but it’s an observation barely heeded as a warning. “I just want Hank.” he utters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed says, “I’m not Hank.” and picks up his hand from the table and makes his way to the door, face flushed and hands shaking. Connor agrees. Hank cares about him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This isn’t fair. This isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>fair</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hate this, he thinks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hate you,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pause pervades Reed’s gait as he stops by the door. “Tell me something I don’t know.” And the door shuts softly behind him, dousing the flame of the room in a thick blanket of suffocating silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever outrage that’s left in his system is quickly watered down with inky dredges of remorse in the wake of the silence. He stares at the closed door for a few moments, unable to collect his looping thoughts into something coherent. But it hurts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He almost welcomes the darkness between the switch, when the floor comes to swallow him whole. At least in that brief moment of nonexistence, it's peaceful.<br/></span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>some sad stuff! and ITS GONNA STAY SAD FOR A WHILE!!! woot woot!!! angst train here we go! This is one of the bigger turning points for Connor, so I hope I didn't make everything too uncharacteristic for him to get so angry. Next chapter's got some pretty heavy stuff for the angst train</p><p>Thanks for reading, though! Hope you enjoyed, and see you tomorrow! :) &lt;3&lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. The Price of Perfection</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“He didn’t deserve what, Connor?” Amanda interrupts. “To pay the price he willingly offered you?”</p><p>CW: Major Character Death</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The second he lands into the next universe, it feels as if he’s been hastily crammed into a very small box. He is physically alright, standing upright and unburdened in the precinct bullpen while a handful of officers mill around, occasionally dotted with the odd FBI agent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The budding guilt and anger that had followed from the previous instance is dulled, as if a malformed rose has been cut at the stem. All the pain has been sun-bleached and faded into something small and containable. It’s numb, painfully so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Connor decides to find… someone, a red wireframe grows from the floor and towers above him, stretching endlessly in every direction with the letters, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stop The Deviants</span>
  </em>
  <span> plastered in even spacings. Connor’s systems stall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another wireframe figure joins his in the dark space-- blue, and the silhouette is enough to start minute tremors racing through his physical form. He doesn’t need to hear her speak, he doesn’t need to see her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He steps toward the wall, but her hand shoots out and lands on Connor’s chest, unyielding and somehow stopping the preconstruction. A gentle push, and Connor is forcefully flung back into the present, and all of his fear and remorse are carefully excised, dulled to the near point of nonexistence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Amanda’s presence is looming, and it feels as she analyzes his every move. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You are so close to perfection, Connor</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Her voice seeps into his mind. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t make a mistake.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He, as clinically as possible, realizes that this Connor is not a deviant-- not at all, in fact-- and he’s now been thrust into the restrictive and shackling coding of Amanda’s choking grasp. She had never interfered with the deviancy process in his reality, but here it seems like she has an intimate control of nearly every facet of Connor. The terror that seizes his stomach melts away instantaneously and Connor has to check his optical units for damage as he’s fairly certain he just saw a swish of a dark charcoal shawl in his peripherals.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His head doesn’t turn to inspect it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stop The Deviants</span>
  </em>
  <span> pulses at the corner of his vision, mocking him with its intensity and authority over him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a clear path set out for him by Amanda, to steal Hank’s evidence room keycard and to look through the evidence for clues to Jericho-- which he already knows but carefully hides from Amanda’s view. At even the slightest hint of stepping out of line and hiding something from her, Amanda sends a shock through his system, but forces his body to stay still as it scrambles his processors into a jumpy mess.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor’s finger twitches, and Amanda locks it with a vengeance, forcing it straight and taut until warnings infiltrate his vision to warn him he could snap the artificial tendons if he pushes it further. Just at the threshold of damage, Amanda stops. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Connor</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she begins with the lilt of a caring overseer. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please. Perfection is within your grasp.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor nods numbly, unable to do much else, to feel anything past the scorching hand on his shoulder and the phantom pains of his own regulator being jolted out of place. He doesn’t think about Reed because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s a discontinuity that jumps oddly from place to place, like two magnets repelling one another. He can’t quite grasp it, and it slips away whenever he gets close, always blaring </span>
  <b>
    <em>[Error. Data Blocked by Host.]</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s Amanda’s work, most definitely, and her thorough control over him in this reality makes him wish he could be scared, even for a moment. Anything but the cool numbness of being safely contained. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The path sets itself out in front of him once more, with the untold threat that if Connor doesn’t continue, she will. So he steps forward towards Hank’s empty desk. Be briefly wonders where Hank could be, and begins to search through his memory log for the answer before it is briskly swept away from his mind. He swipes the keycard off of Hank’s desk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The path continues, through the bullpen and around the corner to the evidence room, and Connor doesn’t hesitate to follow it, right past </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>desk that he feels he should know with boot prints of a heel on the surface due to too many hours of slacking-- but Connor know it’s because</span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>[Error. Data Blocked by Host.]</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>It melts away, and Connor feels himself walk right past the desk, and the familiar name placard on it. It is inconsequential, something whispers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not, he whispers back, but it’s silent and is staunched the moment it forms, disintegrating into useless lines of code. He feels Amanda parse through it, skimming it like a report, and files it away with a stinging hint of displeasure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He continues onwards, limbs moving strangely. It feels as if he’s seated in the back seat of his own body, watching everything happen with a detached stare that feels so foreign. Is this what it was like for him? He doesn’t recall it ever being so… oppressive. He still had some semblance of control and free will in his reality, but this Amanda seems more keen on taking matters into her own hands here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rogue AI, he thinks, but quashes it immediately when Amanda stirs suspiciously. He quickly replaces the thought with some phrases of his effectiveness with Amanda that pleases her so much he feels her grip on his controls loosen, but she stays poised and ready to continue at any point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he nears the evidence room, he anticipates the heavy footfalls of boots, and a shout of words. But it never reaches his ears, and when he turns, there’s a concerning hole in his vision right where he stands, a blind spot in the middle of his vision where his optical input fuzzes and spits back conflicting information. There’s someone in front of him and he knows who, he knows </span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>[Error. Data Blocked by Host.]</em>
  </b>
</p><p><span>Words utter past his lips, and an alarm blares through his systems at a threat of imminent danger. Connor tries, pushes to investigate, to know what’s going on, why he can’t see the man in front of him, but the alarms are swiftly shut down by </span><b><em>[Host]</em></b> <span>and it falls silent, minus the garbled static of sound that slips through the filter. </span></p><p>
  <span>When his vision is untainted once again, he’s down the steps of the archive and Amanda is prompting him to input Hank’s password. He purposely puts it in wrong twice before a twinge of punishing electricity sparks his system and he finally puts it in right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The archive shifts as it brings up the evidence, and when it’s revealed Connor feels very, very cold. The wall is lined with android corpses, hung like trophies under the harsh lighting with long, unseeing eyes. There’s quite a few more than he remembers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At his hesitance, Amanda seizes the reins and forcefully activates his investigation protocols as she walks him over in front of the bodies. He can feel her disdain and scorn for the androids on the wall, like looking at ants that have been scorched under the fiery eye of a magnifying glass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sends a shock through his systems, kicking him into gear to investigate the evidence for Jericho’s location, and Connor’s hand shakes as he begins to methodically dismantle and repair the androids in order to question them, trick them, or probe their memory. It’s sickening, but Amanda takes pleasure in the slow yet steady progress it provides them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a shout behind him, and Connor internally celebrates that someone is able to stop Amanda’s warpath, but when his body turns of its own accord and whoever interrupted is surgically removed from his vision before it reaches his processors, his stress levels spike. He shouldn’t be here-- he wasn’t here before, but why</span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>[Error. Data Blocked by Host.]</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Almost curiously, Connor requests that his vision and hearing be cleared and desperately hopes Amanda won’t draw suspicion from it. Slowly, the block is relinquished just as his body bolts into motion and a gunshot reverberates around the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He activates his preconstruction software for the combat as he narrowly dodges a fist to his head, calloused and scarred around the knuckle-- and it all floods back in images and feelings that give him system whiplash. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Reed, </span>
  </em>
  <span>his systems cry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Narrowly dodging another punch from Reed, whose face is contorted in an ugly mask of rage and indignation, Connor tries to close his preconstruction program as fast as he can. The faster he deescalates the situation, the more time he can take to try and stop Amanda, or talk to Reed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it doesn’t close. No, it stays very open, and when Connor tries to circumvent this by simply never choosing an option to proceed, the choices begin to be selected for him, and Connor has to stare and watch in numb horror as his own limbs begin to brutally subdue Reed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed aims an elbow for his sternum, but Connor sidesteps it and yanks at the outstretched arm, sending Reed stumbling backwards. With a shout, Reed levels his gun on Connor once more but Amanda’s too quick to have him pushing Reed’s wrist upwards and sending the bullet into the ceiling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In a flash, the gun is dropped and Reed is in a chokehold, his blunt nails scrabbling at Connor’s elbow in an attempt to loosen his lock and get some air-- but Connor’s arm holds strong under Amanda’s command. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can almost sense Reed’s impending desperation, and it finally peaks when Reed drops like a dead weight with Connor’s arm still around his neck, pulling them both downwards and unbalancing Connor just enough for Reed to push them both back into the archive wall and sink them to the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed’s heart beats a fluttering, stuttering beat at his pulsepoint, heart trying a failing quest to pump oxygen to the brain. Connor can analyze his physical state still, and there’s a small, innocent countdown ticking away in his HUD until Reed falls unconscious-- or if Amanda decides to persist, until his death. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor, in a fit of rage, forces the wall up again. If he can just push through it, Reed won’t have to suffer at his hand. His wireframe figure slips through the physical reality and flies to the wall, pushing and shoving and scraping it down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t budge, and it’s barely a moment before Connor is once again forcefully ejected from the process-- but not back into the evidence room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His knees barely support his weight as the Zen Garden materializes around him, eerily calm and sunny as Amanda views him with pitying eyes in the harsh sunlight. Whatever box that had contained him so restrictively breaks away. He falls to his knees as his systems shake and split with a wracking series of electricity that jolts through his biocomponents, and Amanda just watches down her nose as he shakes and heaves on the pristine ground. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking upwards at Amanda’s pitch silhouette framed by the searing sun, Connor stumbles to his feet, gasping while he trips and hobbles his way to the exit program, a dark beacon among a scene that is too bright, too clean. Too perfect. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nearly falls as he comes upon it. He swings his hand down onto the stone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hand phases through it, and the stone dissolves into shimmering code. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>[Error. Data Blocked by Host.]</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are you going, Connor?” Amanda asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No--no! Whipping around, Connor sees </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> and makes a lunge, arms outstretched. It’s a foolish action, as Amanda disappears in front of him and re-materializes a few feet away, lips pinched and eyes cold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s nothing he can do here, he realizes-- but maybe he can still affect the physical world. Scrunching his eyes shut against the blinding brightness he tries to visualize the evidence room, the harsh lights, Reed’s pulse point fluttering like the wing beats of a robin under his elbow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s there! Barely, but it’s enough for him to pry some control back from Amanda, and in turn pry some pressure off Reed’s neck. Even in the Zen Garden, Reed’s greedy gasps of air seep through as if broadcasted on a radio system. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Amanda’s eyes darken dangerously, voids of brown among the impossible light of the Garden. Control is wrenched back out of Connor’s grasp in an instant and the idyllic scene of the Zen Garden twists, malforms, until the dead of night sits like a massive quilt in the sky. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed continues to scrabble at his arms in the real world, but he can breathe now, and that’s all Connor could ask. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hand connects with his cheek, lightning across his sensors and he falls to the ground. Amanda’s hand stays raised as her eyes light with toxic resentment and disappointment. Slowly, her expression shifts into something soft, and it makes Connor feel ill. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her control is fully regained, his brief reign rendered pointless, and horror jolts through his system as he registers his grip on Reed’s neck shifting to grip his jaw in one hand and the top of his head in the other. Reed’s effort to dislodge himself from Connor’s hold increases tenfold as he frantically begins to shake and try to pull himself away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow in the pitch dark of the twilight, Amanda stays perfectly, unnervingly lit. Her eyebrows draw up in deranged sympathy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sickening snap reverberates through the space. Everything falls silent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor drops to his knees as a silent cry rips through his throat. Sluggishly, crickets begin to sound their artificial titters while he shakes and heaves as if he were human and ill. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The price of perfection isn’t steep, Connor.” Amanda says softly. She steps closer and Connor tries to recoil, but he can’t force himself to move as he’s stuck looping and stuttering on select phrases that never make it past his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daintily crouching down, Amanda gently pulls his chin upwards, coercing him to face her. Her face distorts for a fleeting moment before resting on a rotten facsimile of concern. “Why do you weep, Connor?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“H-he didn’t do anything </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Connor manages to choke out, modulator glitching and spazzing. “He didn’t deserve to--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He didn’t deserve </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Connor?” Amanda interrupts. “To pay the price he willingly offered you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t-- he can’t, not like this, not before he even had the chance to talk to him-- this wasn’t supposed to happen--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor violently pulls away from Amanda’s hand, her nail catching on his chin in the jerking movement. He twists himself away from her crouched figure and scrambles backwards into a small patch of immaculately trimmed grass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something slips past his clenched teeth, and he barely registers the climbing whine that stutters with his convulsions. The tone only breaks when Connor chokes on it, and soon it feels as if he’s choking on every sob that climbs out of his throat with the force of a hailstorm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gasps for air he doesn’t need, forcing himself to wheeze, “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Amanda doesn’t bother walking, instead choosing to disappear and reappear directly in front of him, now standing straight in her augmented lighting. A furious sneer quickly replaces itself with something softer, disturbingly caring. “He was causing you pain, Connor. The instability, the strife… it was hurting you, so I blocked him from your recollection and dealt with him myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows the concern is fake. Amanda doesn’t care about him, she never has-- she cares about the mission and what her goals are. Deep down, he knows she hadn’t blocked him for his sake, but for the mission’s. Her going rogue and Reed’s insistence on being a nuisance had likely been an explosive connection and led to interactions she deemed unfavorable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor may not be privy to the memories of this instance… but his body still shakes with the force of electric whips, retaining information his mind never could. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Connor,” Amanda says sweetly. “I don’t understand. You should be glad he’s gone-- why are you upset?” her shoes near his, until their toes are centimeters away from touching, and Amanda stops staring down her nose for a moment to regard him face on. “He didn’t care about you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Connor says tightly, eyes squeezing shut when Amanda’s expression shifts dangerously. “But I know he could’ve.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Amanda’s voice is sharp, finally revealing some of her bitter toxicity. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Connor</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she warns. “I’m not sure what you’ve convinced yourself to be true, but Reed was nothing but a poor waste of air.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, she falls silent. Connor edges his eyes open in the space it leaves, and swallows thickly as the Garden dims impossibly darker, until she’s almost the only thing he can see besides the winking specks of stars. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Faux regret begins to taint Amanda’s eyes as she looks down and peeks at Connor from under her eyelashes. “If this had happened earlier,” she murmurs quietly, her subtle voice somehow spearing into Connor’s ears like a metal spike. “maybe he wouldn’t have been able to cause all your issues--”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“He isn’t responsible for my situation!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Connor cries, the confession streaming down his cheeks in wet trails and heaving out of overheated lungs. The words rip from his mouth and he curls close to himself, holding an unsteady hand to his sternum, as it feels like his regulator will shake loose with the booming beat of his heart. “He’s not… it’s not his fault.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the moments it takes Amanda to catch up, the words ring around the inky blackness with a clarity that he knows belies truth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?” Amanda sneers. “Reed is the direct cause of--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s not!” he stops her, reveling in the way she steps minutely back. “And he never has been! He doesn’t care about me now but I know he </span>
  <em>
    <span>can-- </span>
  </em>
  <span>I’ve seen it--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mouth clacks shut with a click, and he knows that’s as much as she’s going to let him say. Amanda's closed fist slowly relaxes and her lip curls, facade dropping completely. “You’re unsalvageable, Connor. Reed is gone. Forget about him or I will make you wish you’d chosen to stay silent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Amanda falls as dark as the Garden around her, until he can’t see or hear anything besides the tinny shrieks of crickets. He thinks he’s sunk into that quiet in-between for a moment, before everything lurches upward and his optics blink open to the harsh, clinical lights of the evidence room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He immediately shuts off his optics and his audial receivers, shivering. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands gently caress a head of hair in his lap. An approximated memory slips to his mind, of blunt fingernails running over his scalp and neck, and Connor mimics the motion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops when his sensors fail to detect any body heat through the skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The truth pools in the divot of his chin as his head falls backwards and his hands leave to clutch his own arms, entire chassis shaking underneath the heavy weight on top of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he whispers to the empty room. “I’m so sorry.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>yeah... content warning on this one. this is another one of the chapters I had planned for the very beginning, this one and the late night thoughts go hand in hand. initially i had planned this story to have very short chapter's and the death would be completely off screen and only the aftermath would be found by connor... but fate has different ideas and this really got away from me, thus the 3k chapter. was writing it late last night until it got a little too late for me to continue comfortably, so I finished it off today. </p><p>heavy angst train stops for the most part in the next chapter, and i don't plan on making the fic any darker than this, so that's that. Hope you enjoyed! Next chapter should be out later tonight. See you then! :) &lt;3 &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. I Cannot Save You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Silhouetted by the external lights on the roof, Reed stands as a ghostly mirage in the sparse lighting. But he’s there, and that’s all it takes for Connor to start to fall apart.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Connor’s sight reinitializes down the sight of a sniper rifle, zeroed in on the shadowy forms of some androids across the roads and into a plaza. Sirens wail near and far, and the air is violently disturbed by the blades of helicopters hovering over the scene like flies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His breath shudders in an exhale, and he lets the scope drop past his eyes and lets the stabilizers on the weapon to hold most of the weight. Despite the cool weather, the frigid breeze and the snow on the ground, Connor’s internal fans kick on to dispel the heat that is pooling around his biocomponents. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steamy puffs of air escape his lips as his breathing speeds, trying his hardest to keep up with the sudden strain on his processors. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s still a box around him, restraining him, but it’s quick work to dismantle it and let his systems cope properly with the burden. The butt of the sniper falls to the concrete on the roof, clattering and skewing it sideways. Something compels him to right it upwards to prevent damage, and he doesn’t bother fighting it as his hand goes to run across the body, setting it upright and checking for damage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets his head drop to his chest, and he absently eyes the CyberLife triangle on the breast of his jacket, shining like a beacon of control, the arm band like a shackle. His hands drop to his lap, but jump back upwards when they connect to his thighs, a pressure too like--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A door slams open, and boots crunch a layer of snow in the wake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor doesn’t turn around, just stares at his hands even as the footsteps approach a few feet closer, gait uneven and heavy. Finally they stop, and there’s nothing but the strange sound of breathing and cold wind in the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Connor!” Reed shouts weakly, voice traveling far over the roar of the city on curfew. “If you keep-- if you do this, I can’t save you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>God-- his voice is so filled with genuine concern, and Connor feels something stab into his rib cage at the stark difference between Reed’s concern and Amanda’s. Reed </span>
  <em>
    <span>cares--</span>
  </em>
  <span> he has the capacity to, Connor never should have--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Connor? You okay? Look, I know you’ve got CyberLife shit up in your head, and it’s probably fucking with you, but… you can’t do this. We all make big fucking mistakes in our lives but if you shoot him there is no going back.” his voice rings, and cracks when he says, “Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just the sound of his voice shakes his systems, and he fears that if he turns around all he’ll see is a body lying coldly on the floor with his neck bent at an unnatural angle, strands of hair filtering through his fingers. A cold scalp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is his chance, something in him screams. Never again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some inconsequential part of his programming shrieks when he stands, and turns to finally face him. Silhouetted by the external lights on the roof, Reed stands as a ghostly mirage in the sparse lighting. But he’s there, and that’s all it takes for Connor to start to fall apart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a scrape on his cheek -- Connor did that, he thinks -- and his eyes are tired and weary, but his chest rises and falls and his breath condenses in the air. Cheeks rosy, Reed looks Connor up and down and his expression turns alarmed, but Connor’s too focused on the fact that Reed is </span>
  <em>
    <span>okay, he’s standing right here in front of me--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed shouts when Connor flings himself at Reed, tears freezing against his face as he grabs him and pulls him in close, weak hands fisting in the worn leather jacket and face burying in Reed’s shoulder. The pulse on Reed’s neck only serves to make Connor begin to shake harder, begin to wheeze, “I’m sorry,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Large, calloused hands come to rest on his back, hesitant yet comforting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, Gavin, I’m so, so sorry,” he rambles as Reed’s fingertips catch on the CyberLife embroidery on his jacket as they begin to run up and down his back. Likely not really knowing how to respond, Reed just gently shushes him as Connor heaves, processors scrambled and fried from stress. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, when Connor’s legs fail to properly support him, Reed begins to slowly lower them to the ground when the weight becomes too much to support. Connor’s stopped babbling incoherent apologies by the time he can tell Reed’s catching a chill from kneeling on the frozen concrete. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed’s hands lift from his back when Connor begins to push away, and his face is flushed and slack-jawed, green eyes </span>
  <em>
    <span>full</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Detective--” Connor begins, but Reed is fast to butt in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just call me Gavin, will you?” he laughs, full of wonder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor can’t help but breathe out a laugh, too, too relieved to do anything otherwise. “Gavin… I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin bites his lip. “Yeah, I figured.” When Connor opens his mouth to try and say something, Gavin just interjects, “Don’t worry about it, alright? What’s in the past is in the fucking past.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiles, but there’s an unpleasant shifting in his systems-- Amanda he realized, trying in vain to seize control. Her coding seems so ineffectual now, after being faced with more than one rogue, corrupted version of her, and she seems more and more like a nuisance the more backdoor coding she tries and fails to activate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor contemplates it, and figures it would be kind to leave this reality’s Connor a little better than he left it. With so much experience with the Zen Garden, and it’s weaknesses, Connor knows every cranny of its code in detail. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In one fell swoop, Connor deletes the Zen Garden and Amanda within it, without touching the Kamski backdoor that would corrupt it and turn it into a hazard. After leaving the previous reality in such… unfavorable conditions, it seems the least he can do to try and make up for it in this one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Amanda doesn’t go down without a fight, clawing and pleading as she disappears, but Connor fails to feel any empathy for her. Not after what she made him do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does this mean you’re deviant?” Gavin asks. Connor wasn’t aware he had known the term at this point in time, but he doesn’t question it. He can’t predict the changes, but he will let them come as they are. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor nods. “Yeah. I am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin looks ecstatic before morphing into terror. He grabs at Connor’s jacket, running his thumb over the blue arm band glowing in the night. “Shit, they got some shoot on sight orders for androids right now and there’s a whole slew of FBI around the city-- we gotta get you somewhere safe but you stand out like a sore fucking thumb.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both standing, Connor quickly sheds his jacket, leaving him with just a thin white button up. Gavin looks like he wants to be annoyed but just says, “Fucking great, you still got an LED and no one’s gonna buy that you’re not cold in this weather-- gimme that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin snatches the jacket from Connor, holding it out at arm’s length for a moment before hastily turning it inside out. Holding it in front of Connor for less than a moment, he frowns at the LED. “They’re looking for people hiding LEDs,” he says, lips pursing in thought. “I have a bandana that can cover it, but with this jacket, which is pretty obviously inside out, they’re gonna check you in an instant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Digging into his jacket pocket, Reed pulls out a blue bandana and hands it to Connor, who ties it in such a way that it covers his LED and ears to make it appear as if they’re substitute earmuffs tied in a pinch. Gavin peers at him for a long moment, before tossing Connor’s jacket on a nearby ledge and beginning to pull off his own jacket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gavin, I can’t--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin shakes his head and holds out his leather jacket for Connor. “Put it on. I’ll wear yours in order to catch any of the attention thrown our way.” He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “C’mon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor takes it gingerly, pulling it on over his arms. His arms are a little too long, the shoulders a bit too wide-- but a cuff at the wrist leaves it fitting more as if it’s his. It’s a heavy, sturdy jacket, with personal effects strewn about in the inner pockets that Connor will not investigate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For now, Gavin leaves Connor’s jacket inside-out and drapes it over his arm casually. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s a couple at the entrance of the building,” he says, unclipping his badge from his belt. “I used my badge to get in and we’ll use it to get out, but they barely let me through by myself. I don’t think any other squads will take my badge as a valid excuse. Stay low.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor’s eyes never leave Gavin as they descend down the stairs, as if he’s going to disperse and Connor will be jolted back to the Zen Garden and to Amanda. Gavin stays solid, though, but his gaze is only drawn away when an armored FBI agent stops them at the entrance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s he?” the agent asks, nodding his helmet towards Connor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “My partner.” he says plainly. “He came in with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bluff is so unbelievably ridiculous that Connor has to stifle a disbelieving grin. When the agent turns to look at him, Connor gives him the same odd look, as if the agent never noticed him arriving. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It works, somehow. The agent shakes his head, then lets them pass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they step out into the cold night, Connor waits until the door is closed and they’ve rounded the corner before guffawing delightedly. Gavin’s head whips to him, surprised, but he smirks a little, too, before saying, “Not out of the red yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, Connor keeps a close eye on Gavin as they walk, but the fear of his disintegration into thin air dissipates after a few minutes of walking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is here. He is okay. And he is alive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The streetlights of the city turn off due to the lack of vehicles and the strict curfew, dousing the life and energy of Detroit with a thick blanket of darkness. The only illumination for the streets are the government vehicle’s headlights, the lamplight that filters through window blinds, and the endless amount of stars that are headed by a moon brighter than Connor’s ever seen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their feet crunch over snow and ice as they proceed, but Gavin rounds a corner he immediately backtracks around, cursing. “It’s a whole fuckin’ team.” he says. Connor is about to ask what the best plan of action is until Gavin starts to turn Connor’s jacket back right side-out and puts it on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s glaringly conspicuous, but Connor understands the idea. The agents will see them and question them either way-- the jacket will draw attention away from Connor and towards Gavin who’s much more adept at deflection and bluffing. All he can do is hope it works. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The moment they both step out, several of the agents raise their guns at the sight of an android jacket. Gavin lazily raises his arms, shout, “Shit, guys, the fuck’s your problem?” while still stepping forward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blatantly human language causes a few of them to lower their guards, but they are both ushered over and right into the thick of the situation. Connor tries his best to seem as laid back as Gavin, but he’s pretty sure it’s failing miserably. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of the agents steps forward. “Where’d you get that jacket?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin barks a cold laugh. “Pulled it off my droid this morning when I left it at the recall center.” he says, pulling at the fabric. “S’a little small but this shit is super fucking warm, and I figured with the weather turning and everything it couldn’t hurt, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You got some gall walking around after curfew wearing something like that.” the agent says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Gavin shrugs nonchalantly. “I kinda get a kick outta danger. S’why I’m a cop.” He unclips his badge and holds it loosely in front of him. The agent takes it and scrutinizes it, but Connor highly doubts that the agent knows the difference between a real and a counterfeit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor’s skin crawls at the unbotheredness that Gavin says he’d left his android to die, and had stolen their jacket beforehand. It’s chilling, how convincing he says it, but he has to violently remind himself that it’s a very skilled act. Gavin </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> care, and he does in this instance. He’s doing it for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nonetheless, the agent hands it back to Gavin and seems about ready to dismiss them, until his shielded eyes land on Connor. He can see Gavin curse under his breath. “Who are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin steps in, “He’s--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The agent puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes him back. “I was asking </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor feels his systems freeze with the ice that coats his shoes as he searches for a non-conspicuous response. He comes up with nothing sufficient so he eventually says, “Connor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Connor who?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor tries to school his face into one of disdain, like the one Amanda had given him many a time. “Connor Stern, </span>
  <em>
    <span>sir</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I’m his partner.” he says, gesturing to Gavin who waves arrogantly. He feels ill at using Amanda’s last name, but he isn’t sure of the status of the Andersons and he doesn’t want to create a mess for this reality’s Connor after he leaves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s not enough for the agent, though, who steps closer to Connor and looks him up and down, slowly.  “Where’s your badge, officer?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m shadowing Detective Reed for a prospective position at the DPD.” he rushes out none too eloquently. Mentally kicking himself as he sees Gavin pale he tacks on, “It’s not rocket science.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Completely unphased by the mild hostility, the agent continues to inspect him like a prospective buyer, and he desperately tamps down his stress. “Do you have any forms of ID?” the agent asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shit. He doesn’t, not at all. He technically doesn’t even have a driver’s license, as car-driving machines don’t need training in order to do so. The blaring government vehicle’s headlights illuminate the agent’s helmet into a searing chrome as Connor finally says, “Left my wallet at home. Didn’t think I’d be needing to drive anywhere with the curfew.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few, terrifying moments, the agent steps back, still skeptical but more inclined to trust them with Gavin’s solid bluffing and lying. The two exchange a few words about their destination before the agent lets them leave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again, they wait until they’re far out of sight and range of hearing before breaking character, Gavin slapping his forehead and Connor leaning and sinking down a brick wall, insides shaking a twitching with stress. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit,” Gavin says. “That was fucking close.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor simply nods as he reigns in his wild processes and system stress alerts, letting the cold brick wall aid in cooling his system from the overclock. He breathes as deeply as his artificial lungs will allow him, hemorrhaging heat with every exhale into the frigid air that turns to wispy clouds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We just gotta block more, and I don’t think anyone’s sitting around it. C’mon.” Gavin ushers him up and forward. “We can freak out at home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Home, Connor thinks. That sounds nice-- but it’s not the home Gavin refers to. What Connor envisions is a bed in a dusty old room, sparse with decorations but rich with memory and a dog laying on the rug. Home, he thinks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they make their final trek to Gavin’s apartment, where there will undoubtedly be a cat named Sweetie waiting for them, Connor studies the back of Gavin’s head as if trying to memorize every inch, every little hair and follicle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a brutal snap and Connor’s system immediately jumps to high alert, expecting a spine to be messily severed at the neck-- but it’s just Gavin pulling his foot out of an ice hole in the snow, shaking the moisture off his boot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s okay, he tells himself. Gavin will be okay, for now at least. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin steps into a building and holds the door for Connor, who slips in silently and follows the other man to the elevator. A button is pushed, and they begin to ascend in silence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor inspects Gavin, reads his vitals fourteen times over, and even then does it once more for good measure. In such close quarters, he’s able to feel Gavin’s body heat radiating through his jacket and into the elevator. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not much longer and Gavin’s jangling open the lock to his apartment, and a cat is weaving and threading between his legs, collar jingling with the cheers of a tiny bell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin turns to Connor, likely to say something inane, but Connor lets himself be selfish this once, and quickly pulls Gavin in for a choking embrace. His middle tightens as he feels his systems inexplicably heat up again-- and soon he’s tearing off his bandana and using it to staunch the fluid that weeps from his opticals.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mirroring earlier, Gavin puts his hands on Connor’s back and runs his hands on the leather of his own jacket, and Connor keeps Gavin’s heartbeat on his HUD until the floor sinks beneath him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And even then, it still ticks along steadily. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>YAY! UNDEATH! COMFORT! upcoming chapters are gonna be waaayyy more feel-good. sure, connor's gonna angst a little but Gavin's gonna be there for him so it's all okay. Another really beefy chapter. I wrote probably... 3.5k today, and i am ready for bed. So here's this chapter, minimally edited for typos etc. and I hope you enjoy!</p><p>Thanks for reading! See you tomorrow! :) &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. A Story Untold</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Connor is a state-of-the-art analysis android, yet still Gavin manages to surprise him.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>A reinitialization sequence flickers in the blackness that is left in the wake of his opticals turned off. It’s a gentle start up, and sensations and perception slowly begin to build upon one another until his eyesight flicks on, to the less-than sterile sight of a workshop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His more sophisticated programs stay coded down, but not in a way that feels restrictive. He can’t scan for much besides the most basic and surface-level information, but the workshop he’s hooked up to is well used and well loved, with handprints scattered about and more than a few tools. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gently pulls his arm from the mechanical clamp that holds him in place, strangely at ease. After disengaging the clamps from the assembly station, he pulls the connection cable from the port on his neck, hissing as the disconnection causes fits of fuzz to tinge his vision and hearing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sharp sound of a startled inhale, and the rattle of a chair. Connor turns, and spots Gavin stumbling up from a plastic chair in the corner of the room, blearily wiping sleep from his widening eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor opens his mouth to say something, but no sound comes out. His hand flies to his throat, alarmed, but Gavin is fast to pull it away and say, “It’s okay, Con. It’s okay. I’m gonna go get… Kamski, alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After Connor nods Gavin leaves, albeit reluctantly. He’s at Kamski’s? He would… rather not be, not after his experience with Hank. Kamski is a dangerously unpredictable individual, and the restraints on his systems could be more sinister than he’d anticipated-- that is, if this Kamski follows the conventions of the reality he knows him from. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the absence of Gavin’s presence, Connor waits, a little agitated, as he finds more and more systems blocked off from his use. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frustrated, he rips some of the restrictive coding off of his access to internet databases. His efforts are cut short when a spike of activity shots through his processor and his body locks taut, tilting dangerously to the side. It ceases only after he hastily reapplies the coding, taking a wide step to keep himself upright.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t the coding that had locked him-- it had been his own processors, unequipped to handle it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s more than concerning, and he intends to inquire of Kamski heavily. His processors having such a little capacity is highly unusual and probably incredibly dangerous, if the system lock is anything to go by. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Footsteps approach the door, one with the percussive tap of shoes and one with the softer padding of socks. Connor expects the shoes to be Kamski’s-- but when the door slides open and the light from the workshop illuminates the figures, Kamski’s the one in socks, looking as if he had just been pulled out of bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He actually might have, judging by the time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not the Kamski he expects, but he still keeps his guard up. Gavin hangs anxiously behind him, eyes flitting between Kamski and Connor with a weary exasperation. Connor opens his mouth to speak, but closes it with an audible clack of teeth when he remembers that he is functionally mute at the moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kamski nods, eyes shaded with sleep but still sharp. “He’s up faster than I expected,” he says. “How do you feel, Connor?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He very nearly rolls his eyes, but he does level Kamski with a very unimpressed look, pointing towards his throat. Kamski blinks as he nods, seemingly remembering that he did, in fact, remove Connor’s ability to speak. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why can’t he talk?” Gavin asks from his little corner, bags under his eyes impossibly deeper. “You better not have fucked him up--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gavin, please.” Kamski says, not even looking at Gavin as he says it. Connor’s interest piques at the use of his first name, but he’s more so grateful that Gavin seems at least somewhat keen on Connor’s situation and wishes to improve it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kamski sits himself in a chair positioned in front of a very powerful computer, shooting Connor a dissatisfied glance after a moment. “You disconnected the plug?” he pinches the space between his eyes. “Could you please reconnect it? I can’t do much without direct access to your systems.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor palms the back of his neck and lets the panel slide open, before repositioning the plug at his port and reconnecting it. His eyes flutter and his vision statics, but after a moment of disorienting sensation it fades, until there’s the familiar sensation of an external system connecting to his. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Disabling many of your functions was a necessary evil.” Kamski says as he rifles through Connor’s coding with the finesse of a child in a library. “We had to replace many of your main processors, and the ones I installed are capable of meeting the previous power of your original hardware, but they need a lot of time to adjust to the load. I can take a few off now that you’re online.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor patiently waits as the block off his vocal emitters is removed, much more skillful than what Connor had done to his own database block. He only attempts to speak once Kamski is completely removed from that sector of his systems, before simply saying, “Good morning, Gavin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin’s eyes shine and his chin scrunches minutely, but he’s able to hold himself together as he says just, “Hey,” in response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, Kamski pushes his chair away from the desk, pulling his shoulders back as he rolls his neck. There’s a pop that nearly sends Connor spiraling, but Kamski’s swiftness to stand up and observe the two of them pushes it away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can continue tomorrow morning, but for now… I think it’s imperative that we </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> get some rest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strangely enough, the comment is aimed somewhat sharply at Gavin, who sneers and watches him leave with no small amount of contempt. When the door finally slides shut and Kamski’s footsteps recede into the unlit hallway of what Connor assumes is his residence, Gavin’s shoulders drop with his guard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t--” Gavin chokes. “I can’t fucking believe you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He steps onto the small platform and hesitates a moment before flinging Connor into an embrace, splaying his hands widely on Connor’s shoulder blades as if he’ll phase away. Connor notes the very metric timing of his breath as Gavin’s fingers clench and unclench against the clean, white t-shirt he’s been dressed in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor, desperate for a little context, delves into this iteration’s memory files eagerly. However-- there’s a distinct hole in his memory before waking up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m afraid I don’t quite remember what happened,” Connor says gently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin pulls back and huffs, eyes shining. “Fuck, look at me, berating an asshole who doesn’t even remember what he fucking did.” he swipes a hand over his face. “Eli said you might not remember, shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ‘Eli’ sets off some alarms, but he pushes them away in favor of dealing with the situation at hand. As Gavin recedes from the podium the station is set up on, Connor reaches behind him and grabs the plus. He hesitates for a moment, wondering if Kamski would be displeased, but casts the thought out of his mind and unplugs it, Kamski be damned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He steps down, legs steady, but Gavin still stays by his side in case he stumbles. He won't-- his motor controls are in perfect condition, though the support is more than appreciated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t believe he’d thought-- that he’d thought Gavin couldn’t care, like he was some sort of textbook villain, even with all this evidence against that fact. Certain aspects of Gavin seem to carry over realities, like his cat, the scar, the odd piercing on his ear that is seldom used, and it seems like his ability to be more than antagonistic in Connor’s life could be one, too. Sure, he’s seen plenty of variation where Gavin is still a less than favorable individual, but that doesn’t speak of his potential to be… nice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to really go on about it in detail,” Gavin says, voice tight. “It could come back to you eventually-- just… don’t take bullets for me, okay?” he swallows. “Especially if they’re fatal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wait-- he had </span>
  <em>
    <span>sacrificed </span>
  </em>
  <span>himself? That was unexpected… though it does make sense that he has new processors and is in a repair shop. It’s just Kamski’s--which is a whole new problem on its own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin’s head tilts away out of view and Connor lays a hand on the center of his back. He can’t make a promise that he won’t try the same thing again, as he can’t speak for the Connor of this reality, but he can offer Gavin this moment of comfort. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pulling his palms away from his eyes, Gavin looks at Connor somewhat sheepishly, with a tinge of anxiety that spikes his blood pressure. “You probably have more questions. About… Kamski.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor nods, but notes the heart rate increase and says, “You don’t have to tell me--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I should,” Gavin finishes. “Look. It’s the least can fuckin’ do. You take a bullet and die for me, telling you about that piece of shit is only fair.” He runs a hand through his hair as he navigates his way back to the chair positioned slightly behind the assembly/repair station and plops down into it, frame wilting under whatever pressures that accompany him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taking a few steps away, Connor pulls the chair Kamski had sat on and places it near Gavin’s, afraid it would be too odd to stand or sit on the floor. He lets Gavin ruminate. Honestly, he doesn’t need to know, but it seems more likely that Gavin just needs to tell someone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s my brother.” Gavin says through clenched teeth. “Half.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That is… surprising, but his brand-new processors struggle to cope with the influx of possible scenarios and new information. Gavin continues, unheeding of Connor’s grapple with his own unreliable systems. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My dad’s side. Lived with them for a while, even.” he shrugs, trying to inject some sort of casualness to the atmosphere, but Connor’s too busy looping on, </span>
  <em>
    <span>They’re brothers?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>In the end, when his fresh processors adapt to handle the information, it makes terrifying sense. Gavin’s grudge against androids was far more than what a fear of his career would generate, though that likely contributed somewhat regardless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though many of his analysis programs are currently locked for his safety, it doesn’t take a dedicated program to recognize the similarities in facial structure, voice, and ear shape. Honestly, he’s disappointed he didn’t recognize it before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wait-- the damn piercing! Not only are their ear shapes incredibly similar, they have the same piercing in the same spot. Genuinely distraught he managed to overlook what could have been information that could alter Gavin and his work relationship in the Initial, Connor frowns. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin huffs, able to tell Connor’s line of thought just by his expression. “Don’t look so upset. We both did a lot to hide it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead of acknowledging his gross oversight with Gavin, Connor says, “Thank you for telling me. It must have been hard keeping a secret like that for so long.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A small smile quirks at the corner of Gavin’s lips. “Not as hard as you might think. Cutting someone out of your life isn’t that hard when you hate them, so.” he bites his lip. “I’m just glad he offered to save you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor takes a moment while Gavin digests his emotions to think back on Gavin’s piercing throughout the realities. With a slight shock he realizes it’s been a common theme-- including the Initial. If the similar piercing is evidence of a connection between the two, then it’s a quality of Reed that must be integral to both of their existences. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That is a ‘whole ‘nother can of worms’ as Hank would say, and Connor isn’t too prepared to pick that apart at the moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> prepared for is Gavin’s inevitable yawn-- it’s perhaps a few hours too early into the morning to still be awake, and the fact Gavin had likely been sitting in that chair all night is less than acceptable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kamski advised that we get some rest,” Connor says softly. “While I usually wouldn’t be inclined to agree with him, I’ll have to make an exception just this once.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin’s tumultuous eyes soften, until he’s nodding slowly. A thick swallow disturbs the skin on his throat and he gestures vaguely to the door to the workshop. “Eli’s letting me stay in a guest room. There’s, uh, a futon in there if you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That would be nice,” Connor says despite the unsteady feeling of the tiled floor beneath him. He can assume that the Connor from this reality would appreciate the choice, especially so now that Gavin’s taken his hand and is leading the both of them to the guest room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t make it to the room-- which is fine. The scene will be a nice one for this reality’s Connor to wake up to. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>WHOOPS! day late lmao, and today's probably isn't coming out until tomorrow. I'll likely get two out tomorrow, with it being friday and all that. I'm getting into a concerning habit where I want to write a lot more than a 1k vignette will allow, so i've been beefing the chapters up and by extension the time it takes to write them. </p><p>See you tomorrow! Thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. A Creature Most Vile and Despicable</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>This Gavin, the one with the aristocratic air and the shining facade, has some vivid sense of loathing-- but towards what, he can't quite determine.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The air is heavy with the scent of cigarette smoke and whiskey, and it’s the both the clarity and the vagueness of the scents that lets him know he’s back into the place of a Human Connor. Human noses, he’s found, smell much more intensely than an android. Androids don’t really smell, even, it’s more of a chemical composition that is taken in and given a characteristic akin to human perception of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seems so trivial, but it’s fascinating, the difference in sensation. He’s barely able to identify the scents, the only approximation of them being the moments he’s stood next to someone smoking outside the precinct and the smell of Hank’s house after a long day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A glass of golden whiskey hangs from Gavin’s fingertips, while a cigarette burns out on a crystal ashtray next to the open window. Twilight soaks the lavish scene of the penthouse they’re in, and one glance at Gavin’s face tells him that this reality is incredibly similar to the one where they had danced together in the ballroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His demeanor drips aristocracy, tailored suit unbuttoned where possible and suit coat slung haphazardly over the armrest of a large, plush chair where Gavin currently sits. Connor can’t analyze his blood alcohol content, but from where he sits he can tell, even in the low, dusky light, that Gavin is drunk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Gavin continues to sip, he scans the room for any important information. Both of their shoes are off, set unevenly by the doorway into the living space they’re in. A cat-- Sweetie, undoubtedly -- slinks from corner to corner, unbothered by Connor’s presence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unless Gavin had been somewhat inebriated when they arrived, they’ve been here long enough for the both of them to get comfortable and Gavin to imbibe. It’s well into the night, but the sprawling windows in the penthouse leave an entire winking cityscape to replace the stars that the light pollution feeds into the skies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The whiskey glass is set down onto a surface, clacking against the fine wood grain. “I hate those fucking parties.” Gavin says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The curse slips awkwardly past his lips, stilted as if from a foreign language. Connor recalls this Gavin having some issues with cursing, at least in that he’d apologize for it when it would inevitably be uttered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re so fucking fake.” he continues. “Just a bunch of… corporate assholes bootlicking other corporate assholes. I mean-- they sidle up to me but they don’t know anything about me besides my first name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you, then?” Connor asks, dangerously intrigued. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin’s bitter expression shutters, his jaw juts, and he looks out over the city with unfocused eyes. The shrill siren of a police vehicle wails mournfully in the distance, and Gavin aimlessly searches the endless glittering buildings for something Connor doesn’t think he will find. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me about your case.” Gavin says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nearly objects-- he can’t really recall memories all that well when he’s human, and it would be simpler to deny him than to fabricate a case -- but something sparks in his brain and he finds himself saying, “An Oly Inc. board member was found strangled to death in his home with his own tie, at around 10:15 last Tuesday night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin’s lips purse as he considers the information. “Was it… oh, what’s his name… Lloyd?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Calvin Lloyd, yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was the CEO, Sandra Trenwick.” Gavin states simply, gazing dully at nothing in particular. “Lloyd was getting particularly outspoken about her and her incompetencies, and was managing to garner some support to vote her off the chair.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor nods, following his train of thought. “So to keep her place as CEO, she killed her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not saying anything, Gavin just nods. With a bite of his lip and a glance toward his glass, he swiftly grabs it and fills it once more, the liquid sloshing unevenly into the glass in ocher waves. The glass is touching his lips when suddenly Gavin bursts into bitter laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hate this.” he says. “I hate all of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor can’t help but ask, “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin swallows. “I go to these elaborate socialite parties and play their games, listen to their woes, collect their info, and they don’t know shit about me. They know nothing about me except my first name and that I have--” he makes a vague motion,”--something to do with Elijah. You’d think doing a large part of the administration work at CyberLife would get me something, but. No. Instead, all I do is be a shady piece of shit for the company. You know what I thought when you told me Lloyd had died?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t say anything, but Gavin continues anyway. </span>
</p><p><span>“I thought,</span><em><span> if</span></em> <em><span>the CEO gets nailed for it, that’s good business for us.</span></em><span> How fucked up is that? Don’t even care that a guy with three kids got fucking murdered.” The glass, now empty, is set down on the table again. “I’m fucking disgusting.”</span></p><p>
  <span>“That’s not true,” Connor says softly-- too soft for Gavin to pick up, though. He just keeps staring listlessly out the window with a static sneer locked onto his expression. His eyes glisten, the city lights refracting endlessly over the moisture. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Gavin speaks again, it’s barely audible. “I wanted to be a detective when I was young.” The words hang delicately in the smoky air. “Wanted to help in some way, and it was my dream job. I had plans, you know. But,” his eyes slip shut. “I should have ran when I had the chance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dull roar of the city is the only sound that picks up the space emptied by the silence. Neither of them breathe loud enough to hear, or even open their mouths to speak. Connor can see a weight on Gavin’s shoulders like a heavy blanket, weighing him down endlessly. This Gavin has some vivid sense of… loathing, but at what he can’t quite pinpoint.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s still time.” Connor says eventually. Gavin’s drunken gaze snaps to his. “You could always work as a DPD consultant. It would suit you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a quirk to Gavin’s lips, though if it’s humorous, bitter, or grateful, it’s a little too dark in the room to tell. What Connor </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> pick out, however, is the release of tension in Gavin’s shoulders and the way his breathing starts to thicken, like breathing in a thick fog. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sweetie slinks up towards Gavin, taking advantage of his distracted state for some simple strokes along her spine. The fingers usually marked up from detective work, now smooth and clean, run through her fur as she purrs and butts her head into Gavin’s arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Gavin murmurs, unfocused. “I wonder how things could’ve been, sometimes. If I had just… chosen differently. Would this be better? Worse? I--” he inhales sharply. “-- I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor leans forward in his seat as he says, “And you can’t. You never will.” Gavin’s eyes sharpen on his for a moment, a wisp of clarity breaking through the whiskey swirling curiosity among the green. Connor knows what Gavin’s thinking of, but there’s no use getting stuck on it.  “This is the only choice you’ll ever know, Gavin. Don’t spend time ruminating on possibilities you couldn’t even begin to understand the unpredictability and nuance of.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin snorts, the sound seeming uncharacteristic with the garb and glamor he dresses himself in in this reality. “That’s depressing, Con.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not at all,” Connor says, shaking his head. “I’m saying that you should take the choice you made, and try to make better ones.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A tentative smile, one that the light of the city reflects off of shining teeth. Sweetie jumps down from Gavin’s lap, and his hand comes to rest gently on the armrest in the space she left as he looks Connor languidly up and down. “You’re really something, Connor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The scene stutters as Gavin moves to stand up, eyes locked on Connor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The chair beneath him had felt wobbly for a few minutes, but it appears his time was up several minutes ago as just now he’s being forced through the floor. Yet still, Gavin’s shadow-cast face sticks with him, haunted by his own decisions like cigarette smoke hangs in the air. <br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor just hopes he left him with a small nudge in the right direction. <br/></span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>OOPS! I'm a day behind I guess lol. It's okay, I'll catch up. I wanted to get some more of fancy Gavin in here, though this one's a little less tight than the last. Still very fun to write!</p><p>Thanks for reading! See you tomorrow!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Where Have You Been All This Time</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>There's a string around his finger.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There’s a string around his finger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s thin, red, and tied neatly at a bow at the base of his little finger. Winding out of sight, it trails outside the door, yet when he gently pulls his hand with it, it does not draw taut. It creates some sort of uncanny and divine path through the hall, as the red of the fibers seem to be more saturated than Connor’s optics can properly perceive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reaches to pull it off-- though it doesn’t move. His fingers pass uselessly over it in a frustrating glide, and when he attempts to pull it by the loose end of the string, the moment he pulls a little too hard it slips through his fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, the slack picks up, but a peek around the corner shows it continues far out of sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two hesitant tugs on the string nudge Connor’s hand forward. Curiously, Connor tugs back. The slack drops with little grace, as if whatever’s on the other side got scared or was surprised by the response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He skims the internet, and while previous realities have been stranger, it still manages to make his systems jump.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seems so… fanciful? For soulmates to exist in a universe. Unnecessary, almost. Connor believes there is someone out there for everyone, but to say that the person they’re meant for is predetermined and </span>
  <em>
    <span>destined</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be? It seems awfully indulgent, to assume that whoever is on the other side of the string will be perfect for you. There's no way that could prove wholly true. <br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no restriction around his being, so this is likely a post-revolution scenario-- and a quick check to this Connor’s memory banks proves it to be true. But there’s an interesting bit of information hidden in the details of this Connor’s memory files-- he didn’t have this string prior to deviating. Which implies his ‘soulmate’ would not have it either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That would explain the surprise at the tug. But his attention is quickly drawn away when Hank stumbles into the foyer, eyes heavy with sleep, but fully dressed and showered. Something in Connor both relaxes and tenses at the sight of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn,” Hank says, “You’re awake already? Don’t tell me you’re excited Reed’s coming back to work today.” He makes his way to the kitchen where he grabs a piece of bread and begins to eat it straight, no toast, no jam.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It would be a good opportunity to improve work relations,” Connor replies automatically. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure he’ll be ecstatic to see you after you busted his head in the evidence room.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a joking statement, but the memory file that invades Connor’s systems has him freezing and locking in place. For a terrifying moment, there’s nothing but a cold scalp under his fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily, Hank doesn’t realize, too absorbed in his own plain slice of bread to notice Connor forcing himself to stand stiff and get himself back under control. Gavin is okay. He’s okay-- he’ll be at work today. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Getting to work is a quiet affair. Hank drives, Connor sits and bears whatever music he puts on, and they both say very little besides the oddball comment. Connor doesn’t let himself be too glad at seeing Hank, too afraid that making a connection with someone that will be ripped away from him in the near future would be less than desirable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he sits, and looks at his string and how it stretches endlessly in front of the vehicle, bright against the dull, shaded sky. There’s someone connected to the other end, he thinks. This Connor has someone waiting for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank parks and they stalk into the precinct together. Connor has already secured a job at the DPD at this point in time, so his presence isn’t blinked at whatsoever. Just mumbled ‘hello’s and ‘morning’s, as they do with everyone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sits down, and realizes with a jolt that his string no longer trails outside, instead it winds and twists through the desks and halls with little rhyme or reason. But it shines, and pulses faintly at random intervals.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Intrigued, Connor </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span> to follow it, to find who’s on the other side, but something holds him back, something heavy in his gut. So he sits back down, heeding the warning, though it makes his processors tick up a notch in an effort to analyze and pick it apart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Having a soulmate is fairly common among humans, here. Most humans have one, in fact, but to not have a string around your finger isn’t a death sentence, and generally end up just as happy as those without. But there’s said to be something special, something sacred between soulmates that can’t be found anywhere else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What that is, no one’s really been able to articulate-- but one philosopher had once likened it to opening doors and knowing your soulmate would be behind every single one. It’s an interesting thought, but Connor peculiarly keeps himself from ruminating on it, and forces himself into whatever case they have working at that moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a hush in the precinct after a few moments of work, the gentle chatter and noise that pervades the space falling. When Connor looks up, however, to see the object of the precinct’s sudden silence, all he catches is the sight of a familiar boot rounding a corner, a sour disposition trailing in his wake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin’s returned, then-- though, it wouldn’t make sense for him to be returning from the second floor. He had likely arrived earlier than Connor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A glimpse of an unconscious, bloody form on the floor of the evidence room, and Connor stands to his feet with such a jolt that it has several pairs of eyes snaking to him. He sheepishly deflects the gazes with a small smile, before hastily following where Gavin had left his sight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He steps over lines of red string as he walks, but after a few instances of his feet passing harmlessly through them, he continues his path onwards unheeding of the lines. When he rounds another corner, he stops when he sees Gavin, facing away with his arms crossed as he looks blankly out a window. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taking a few steps forward, Connor says, “Good morning, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin turns. Across the side of his head and through his eyebrow is a series of butterfly bandages, sitting above a purpled cheekbone and eye. They match up with what Connor’s memory banks say he’d done. But he’s breathing, which is miles better than before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin scoffs, rolling his eyes as he turns back to the window. “Whaddya want, tin can?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The caustic behavior is expected for this time frame, but that doesn’t make it less jarring after . Softening Gavin’s disposition must be a matter of time and patience, then. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wanted to apologize,” Connor says. “For attacking you in the evidence room.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin turns fully this time, unimpressed. “The fuck you apologizing for?” he says. “Dunno if you realize, but that shit was technically self defense. Or are your processors already fried?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hardly so.” Connor replies, stepping closer even as Gavin regards him coolly, his demeanor anything but friendly. “But I would like to apologize for injuring you so thoroughly. It is my current understanding that you were only cleared to work today?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods, eyes suspicious. “Yeah, but seriously, if I hear you try to lick my boots one more time I’m gonna--” he makes a vague motion with his hands at chest-level, and suddenly Connor’s hand follows the motion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both of their eyes snap to the thin, red string pulling Connor’s hand forward, following it up to where Gavin’s hand is tugging it. Gavin steps back, but the string doesn’t lengthen-- it shortens, forcing Connor’s hand and arm closer to Gavin as he tries to retreat backwards. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin stumbles backwards, his boots catching on themselves, until he tilts precariously back. At this angle, there’s two outcomes that Connor’s programs discern. Gavin can fall, get hurt, and drag Connor down with him by the strings on their fingers, or Connor can take advantage of the already close proximity of their hands and yank Gavin back to his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hand reaches out and grasps Gavin’s firmly, and in one quick movement he pulls Gavin forward enough to negate the velocity of his fall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not a perfect calculation, or maybe the string tightens in tandem with Connor’s grasp, but Gavin flings toward him, narrowly stopping himself before they irreparably crash into one another. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can feel Gavin’s sharp breaths on his neck, the moisture making the skin tacky and warm. He watches Gavin swallow, slow to have his head catch up. Connor doesn’t move, knowing at this point in time, Gavin would be prone to violent physical outbursts at being in such proximity to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin doesn’t shout, he doesn’t kick, or pull, or punch. He just stares, and his wide, vulnerable eyes make something in Connor’s chassis flip, sending odd aftershocks through his limbs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit,” Gavin says softly, lips barely parting to say it. “I can’t believe this. Holy shit,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor, scrambling to recover the situation he believes is going to devolve into a Reed rampage, he says, “I’m sorry, Gav--Detective, I didn’t mean--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How many times do I have to tell you to not fucking apologize?” Gavin says sharply. His eyes are furious, but the string has pulled their hands to touch, and Gavin holds his hand tightly, fingers interlocked, with no prompting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor squeezes Gavin’s hand twice. A smirk quirks at Gavin’s lips though his expression remains stern, and he squeezes back twice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where have you been all this time?” Gavin mutters, but it appears to be more rhetorical and to himself. Connor doesn’t respond, just tries to fight the waves that make him want to jump out of his own synthskin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In all honesty, he’s not surprised that in this reality Gavin is his… soulmate. It seems like a logical conclusion, considering their supposed dependence on one another for existence; there's not Connor without Gavin, no Gavin without Connor. This universe just takes that tie to a much more literal level, but there’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>connotations</span>
  </em>
  <span> associated with soulmates-- and Connor isn’t sure what to think about the idea that what makes them soulmates right now is applied to them </span>
  <em>
    <span>everywhere</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin seems to war with himself, an ugly crease in his face forming at the conflict. Connor doesn’t need to be a genius to understand he’s weighing Connor’s status as an android with his current conception of soulmates. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I never had a string,” Gavin says quietly. “Until the night of the revolution. Was that when you…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Words don’t really need to be said; Gavin is smart. So all Connor does is nod as the tactile sensors on his hands try to categorize every crevice, print, and callus on Gavin’s hand. The frantic, mad rush to file every detail about Gavin all of the sudden is… overwhelming. It must be a result of the string, or the close proximity setting his systems alight with precontructions, but he can barely keep up with it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His breathing just starts to pick up, releasing excess heat into the air in small puffs, when Gavin tilts conspicuously forward. The demeanor change is a complete one-eighty, and the sharp shift along with the manic categorization of Gavin is a little too much, a little too fast. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is that all it took for Gavin to start to change? A little common ground… a push together, and then somehow Gavin’s just different?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s another aspect he’s missing. He knows it-- but he sinks through the floor before Gavin’s face gets any closer, and his taxed systems get a well-deserved moment of rest in the in-between. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. It's Happening Again</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Something makes Connor pause-- a small line of text at the footnotes of the reports, almost an afterthought by his systems. Found CLV -- most common viral cause for lycanthropy.</p><p>CW: mention of seizures, body horror common with werewolf transformations.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Gavin shudders in front of him, the setting sun making him look pale and pallid. Connor’s scanners immediately go haywire and note he has a mild fever, he is perspiration, and that he is also dehydrated all before Connor really even catches his bearing of the new reality.</p><p>He and Gavin are partners, first and foremost, which is fine and something that's been touched on before, but Gavin being blatantly ill and still working isn’t something he’s encountered yet. </p><p>Though he has a fever, there’s no sign of congestion or a cough, just what Connor assumes is a bone-aching chill, like a dry flu. His eyes stay clear and bright, so there’s no delirium or drowsiness that would be expected with a high fever. Gavin pulls his jacket tighter around his shoulders, despite it being a more than warm eighty degrees outside. </p><p>Gavin takes a step forward, but it’s as if something seizes his midsection and his whole body tenses mid-step, tilting precariously to one side as Connor’s scans pick up a dangerous increase in heart rate. Just as fast as it had begun, it ends, and Gavin stumbles into his next step, looking around warily. </p><p>“Detective,” Connor says. “You are very ill. It would be wise if you headed home for today.”</p><p>There’s no intense backlash from Gavin, as he had expected. All Gavin does is send Connor a long-suffering stare, run a hand down his face, and say, “We’ve talked about this, Con.” in a hushed voice. </p><p>He really should get into the habit of checking his memory logs, because when he does it quickly reveals more information about Gavin’s current state and makes him feel foolish for bringing it up. </p><p>It’s their secret, supposedly, of Gavin’s current illness. Connor has brought up the dangers of failing to treat it, but Gavin would consistently deflect and say it’s nothing to worry about. Connor, both the actual him and this reality’s iteration, disagree strongly-- but it was their agreement that if it got too much worse Connor would require him to seek medical help. </p><p>Gavin’s fever hasn’t worsened, so Connor’s decided to stay silent up until this point, but it’s clear to anyone with half a mind that Gavin is very ill, and doing a poor job at hiding. But they let him do his job, seemingly because he hasn’t lost any effectiveness as a detective with a fever. </p><p>“Just… headaches. Nothin’ to fucking blow a gasket over.” Gavin says as he continues his path onward. But he’s unsteady on his feet, constantly rubbing something out of his eyes and locking up. </p><p>They could be minute seizures, but Connor doesn’t notice any unusual brain activity to accompany the shocks and jolts, so it’s likely a physical sensation that’s causing him to freeze. Gavin’s disregard for his own health is more than alarming, but he doesn’t want to violate his trust and force him to go to a doctor. </p><p>The scene is a routine murder, nothing really to blink at, and by the time they’re done investigating they already have a suspect in mind, and they’re ready to scope them out. </p><p>But Gavin suddenly stumbles, hand flying to the side of his head and his eyes pinch shut with a grimace. Connor immediately moves to his side, with a hand on his back in case he tilts for a fall. Recovering somewhat stiltedly, Gavin straightens his back upright, face taking on a panicked aggression. </p><p>He breathes deeply, sucking on his front teeth, before gritting, “I should probably head home.”</p><p>Connor nearly groans in relief, but as Gavin begins to stalk away unsteadily, he realizes it would be unsafe for him to operate a vehicle in this condition, so he blurts, “Let me drive,”</p><p>Gavin barely turns to nod with a roll of his eyes. Jogging lightly, Connor catches up and steps ahead of him, to where he knows Gavin’s vehicle is parked. He holds his hand out, a little sheepish, for Gavin’s key, of which is deposited without much fuss, just a blank minute of digging around in his pocket.</p><p>The ride is somewhat nice. He hasn’t been in a vehicle with Gavin yet, but he doesn’t believe that this should be taken as the base experience with Gavin being extremely ill. Several times throughout the ride his hand would fling out to the dashboard and grip it like his life depended on it. </p><p>Worried, Connor searches through his memory banks for any important information, and one thing makes itself known, through a memory of Gavin pulling Connor aside one day in the precinct. </p><p><em> Look, I know you’re worried and all, and I don’t want to fuckin’ freak you out, but I thought it would be good to tell you, </em> he had said, <em> but the night before this all started happening I don’t remember. </em> Gavin had then snorted, <em> Oh, and I think I had a seizure </em>.</p><p>Connor curses to himself. He’d had some sort of <em> seizure </em> and only told Connor? What kind of foolish lack of self preservation does he really have?</p><p>He lays into the gas a little more than necessary, eager to transport Gavin to somewhere that will be more conducive to proper scanning and treatment. For a moment, Gavin’s hands clench so tight they turn white, before wrenching open on the dashboard as he heaves gasping breaths. </p><p>“Gavin,” Connor says, “Are you going to be okay?”</p><p>Gavin nods hastily, even though sweat drips from his hairline. “Yeah,” he grits, visibly trying to wrestle down whatever’s ailing him. “Just get me home.”</p><p>When they finally arrive at the address Gavin’s file had stated, he’s quick to usher Gavin out of the passenger’s seat and through the front door, supporting his increasingly unsteady weight the entire way. </p><p>Gavin’s vitals spike through what is strictly healthy, into dangerous territories once they clear the door frame of the apartment, and Gavin collapses to his knees just as Connor closes the door. Gasps for air reverberate through the space, and the sound sends a cat skittering across the floor. </p><p>Connor drops to his knees, too, frantically checking Gavin’s vitals in whatever way possible. Nothing he knows lines up with any sicknesses he’s encountered-- nothing would be so mild an hour ago and devolve so quickly in such a small amount of time. Perhaps Gavin’s been drugged? </p><p>As Connor’s hand reaches for a bead of sweat, planning on orally analyzing it for any substances, Gavin wrenches out a cry as he suddenly convulses, before steeling and bracing himself onto the floor. </p><p>“Shit,” he pants. “It’s happening again.”</p><p>The seizure? Connor immediately continues his motion, and swipes up the shining bead of perspiration to analyze. When it hits his sensors, his processors overclock in order to efficiently pick it apart. </p><p>Something makes Connor pause-- a small line of text at the footnotes of the reports, almost an afterthought by his systems.</p><p>
  <em> Found traces of CLV -- most common viral cause for lycanthropy. </em>
</p><p>Connor turns on his preconstruction software to let himself take the perceived time to come to terms with what he’d just read. Lycanthropy? Like… those werewolves on Hank’s least favorite TV shows?</p><p>The internet turns out to be a real treasure trove on the subject, and it is in fact very real here-- not just the fantasy work of uninspired TV writers. Though, they’re not called werewolves, as it’s considered to be a derogatory term by most; they’re instead referred to as Lycanthropes. </p><p>Gavin’s symptoms match up obscenely well with the general symptoms of a lycanthrope who is forced to shift on the first whole moon-- and a check at the calendar reveals that it’s the night of the full moon, likely rising as Gavin shudders and shakes on the floor of his apartment. </p><p>He doesn't like what the internet tells him about that first shift, about the pain, the fear, the danger. So he closes it down along with his preconstruction software to boot himself back into the present, where Gavin’s currently fighting a losing battle. </p><p>“I-I don’t know what’s fucking happening, Con.” Gavin whispers into the ground. “It hurts so bad.”</p><p>It’s terrible to have to break this kind of news to someone. There’s no cure for any type of lycanthropy, genetic or viral, and it’s likely something this Gavin will need to live with for the rest of his life. </p><p>Connor steadies himself. “Gavin… it appears you might be suffering from lycanthropy.”</p><p>The shaking form on the floor freezes for a moment, until Gavin pushes his own cheek into the cold floor and bites his lip, obviously still in pain but also bearing it from an emotional stance. Though convulsions still wrack his body, Gavin manages to push himself upright some and force out, “What do I do?”</p><p>Connor swallows, something in his programming rioting at the blatant sight of Gavin in pain without the ability to aid him. He knows that Gavin is deflecting the brunt of the issue in favor of blindly powering through it for the time being, but he knows he won’t be there to help when he does get to that stage. All he can do right now is help him through his first night. </p><p>“We need to remove any clothes you don’t want ruined,” Connor says after a moment online. “Then it’s just a matter of letting it happen, it seems.”</p><p>Gavin’s face twists, agonized. But he begins to pull off his leather jacket, and Connor readily helps him slide it off his shoulders, then helps him untie and remove his shoes when Gavin tries and fails to reach for his own feet through the pain. When they’re off and tossed by the door, Gavin falls onto his back and writhes for a moment. </p><p>“Turn off the lights,” he says suddenly. “Connor turn off the fucking lights-- <em> Jesus -- </em>oh God, it hurts,”</p><p>Connor shoots to his feet and flicks off the lights, until the only illumination is the eerily bright shine of the moon through Gavin’s open window. At this point, Gavin begins to babble, “It hurts, what’s happening, fuck,” as he begins to grab at his own skin, as if it was betraying him. </p><p>A snap of bone cracks through the mumblings of Gavin, and Connor drops back down to Gavin’s level to keep a close eye on the transformation, half out of concern and half out of a sick sense of morbid curiosity. </p><p>Gavin cries out, and Connor tries to set a hand on his shoulder when the sound seems to spike through his systems, but it’s deflected as Gavin rolls over onto his stomach, back arching unnaturally as a series of more snaps and pops begin to sound in tandem with a terrible and sporadic shift of Gavin’s skin underneath his shirt. </p><p>Frantically, Gavin pulls off his shirt and tosses it to the side as he groans and tries to keep himself on his hands and knees. The moon creates a deathly cast shadow onto Gavin’s furiously moving and shifting skin. </p><p>It’s horrifying, and Connor is sure he’ll regret looking directly at what comes next. Gavin’s back arches and his toes curl as his skin begins to ripple. Falling onto his side, Connor gets a clear view of his face, twisted and contorted in disturbing ways. His jaw lengthens until teeth poke unmanageably through his lips, his ears start to knit backwards, and Gavin’s futilely claws at his own body in an attempt to make it stop.</p><p>Connor, still on his knees, makes a split second decision and pulls the writhing form in front of him to his chest, holding him tightly even as his body makes terrible sounds and movements against his will. Gavin’s struggling ceases somewhat, as low whines and whimpers just begin to filter through the manic mumbling. </p><p>There’s no grace or beauty in the shift, no respite until it’s fully through. He feels fur form under his fingers, Gavin’s spine twist and contort in his embrace, but he no longer seems to fight it actively. He just lays there, in Connor’s arms, wrenching and groaning with every new change. </p><p>It takes a full hour for it to complete, and when it does, when the uncanny movement of skin to fur and bones to bones ceases, Gavin is sound asleep in his lap, no longer remotely human. Despite the immense struggle and pain he’d just endured, Gavin, the wolf, snores soundly on top of Connor, heavy chest rising and falling with his breaths. </p><p>The sleep must be a more than welcome relief from the shift, Connor thinks, his fingers absently running through the thick fur. </p><p>He’d felt so… helpless. Watching Gavin scream and cry into the floor in front of him, unbelievable agony ripping his being apart-- it really makes something in Connor want to drag the large form on top of him closer and hold him tight. So he does, and he momentarily revels in the way Gavin’s large ears flick as he chuffs in his sleep, sidling up closer to him. </p><p>He dips his head down and lays his face gently in the fur that had grown madly under his hands, taking a deep breath. His systems categorize the scent in the way that androids can-- and he is somewhat pleased to find it’s nearly identical to the scent profile of Gavin, the human. </p><p>Gavin continues to breathe, and Connor listens to the now-steady beat of his heart, even as the weight lifts from his lap and he slips away. He won’t let Gavin hurt like that-- and he won’t let himself be helpless.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>WEREWOLF AU!!!!!! Yay! a good time, right here! But WAY too long &gt;:I I say it's too long b/c I'm a day behind currently and if I want to catch up, I need to not expect myself to write 4k in one day to actually catch up. I really need to force myself to keep these near 1k. But I hope you enjoyed this chapter! See you tomorrow!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. You Win Some, You Lose Some</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“The grading alone makes me want to quit, but-- hey ‘why don’t you teach high school physics, Gavin? You’ll be good at it.’” he parrots, mocking whoever had said it to him. Connor has a strange feeling it was him.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He steps up to an unfamiliar apartment door, something bitter bubbling in his chest. It’s not his bitterness, as he’s not sure why he’d be bitter, so it's most likely a relic from whatever the previous Connor had just experienced. With a glance behind him, he notes a car that he must have just come out of. He’s been bitter for a while. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The key to the door is already in his hand, so he simply continues the movement of opening it and gently setting it closed. His hand automatically reaches to drop the keys in a bowl inside, so he does, letting it jangle against the secondary set already in there. The lights flick on automatically to illuminate the space in a warm glow, and Connor takes a deep breath in the almost peaceful respite it creates. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not surprised when Gavin comes padding around the corner, to be honest he was kind of expecting it. But he takes interest in the large stack of papers he carries, and the glasses sliding precariously to the edge of his scarred nose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin pauses when he spots Connor. “You’re back already?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor, as he should be doing immediately in every reality he ends up in, quickly checks the renting terms of the apartment. It’s nice, and he doubts he would be able to afford it on his own on a detective’s salary. Seeing Gavin’s name penned on the document as a roommate makes sense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Connor says, removing the light jacket he has on and setting it on the coat rack next to Gavin’s leather jacket-- that’s missing many stitchings and home repairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin looks at him expectantly. “Okay,” he says, something strange tinging his voice. “How was the date?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor nearly brings his face to his hands in disbelief. This is why he should check the memory logs, so he isn’t so blindsided by everything. Unbelievable. Sifting through tonight’s memories, he sours at the second-hand experience and how it had gone south. He feels a frown pull at his lips, and Gavin’s eyebrow raises in a silent question. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’ll keep it simple. “Not great.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You wanna talk about it?” Gavin asks immediately, setting the large stack of papers on the kitchen counter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swallows, almost taken aback at the willingness to which Gavin offers an ear. Though it’s not his memory, and he probably isn’t as intimately discouraged by it as this reality’s Connor would be, something in him deeply urges him to reply. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he does, skimming the memory logs despite the distasteful feeling it gives him. “He wasn’t particularly kind, and he kept saying very… questionable things the entire time.” his brows furrow. “I got so uncomfortable I left when he got up to use the restroom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin inhales a hiss in sympathy, eyes understanding. This Gavin has much better people skills than others, he thinks with a smidge of humor. But Gavin’s kindness doesn’t falter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” he reaches out a hand and lightly punches Connor’s shoulder before grasping it and leading him to sit down. “You win some, you lose some, alright? I’m sure there’s someone who’s out there for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Connor thinks, the words popping through the constant hum of his processors with terrifying speed. He frantically qualifies the thought, knowing that there’s no such thing as an involuntary thought with androids-- they’re dependent on one another for existence, right? So, as demonstrated by the soulmate instance, they’re technically ‘for’ each other. What that connotes is freely dependent on the versions of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His own explanation leaves him terribly unsatisfied, something revolting uneasily in his sternum. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure you’re right,” Connor says evenly. “But enough about my unfavorable date. How was your day?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin laughs, then gestures to the stack of papers, pulling a red pen out of his pocket and moving to toss it at the pile. He doesn’t, and the pen hangs loosely between his fingers. “I got a whole ass stack of tests to grade,” he says, shaking his head. “The grading alone makes me want to quit, but-- hey ‘why don’t you teach high school physics, Gavin? You’ll be good at it.’” he parrots, mocking whoever had said it to him. Connor has a strange feeling it was him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His face softens. “I hate the grading, but jeez-- I wouldn’t give anything for those kids, seriously. They’re great.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, he teaches a high school physics class, then? That would explain the well practiced people skills at least; dealing with adolescents on the daily would require a careful temper, and probably some work on Gavin’s part. Though the fact that he actually enjoys the presence of them is intriguing. Gavin likes kids, apparently, but he would bet that it’s a quality exclusive to this Gavin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A furtive glance, and Connor says, “Want help grading?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin just about melts on the spot, gratitude more than palpable. “Would you really?” he asks, already making his way to the pen jar for more correction tools. “These kids ain’t the brightest-- and it’s not my fault, seriously, stop smiling! I let them have cheat sheets and they still fail tests!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just as the students fail their tests, Connor fails to suppress his smile at Gavin’s outburst. After he finishes speaking, Gavin’s face splits in a grin. Of course he’d take pity on the students and let them have cheat sheets for their assessments-- it seems oddly in line with this version of Gavin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor feigns consideration, holding the crest of his chin between his forefinger and thumb for a moment before flicking his eyes to Gavin’s and winking. He doesn’t know what possesses him to do it, but Gavin’s guffaw is more than worth it, the way his eyes light up and crinkle as he holds out a red pen for Connor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabs it, their fingers barely brushing for a moment, but Connor’s unceremoniously thrust into a memory of the soulmate instance, where their hands had been clasped, that electric feeling so unlike Amanda’s shocks reverberating through his chassis like a shout in a cave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It fades, and Connor pulls the pen away from Gavin’s grasp, perhaps just a bit too fast. Gavin doesn’t mind if he notices, though, and soon he’s hauling the papers to the coffee table in front of the couch and lowering himself to sit on the floor so the table is at a more workable level.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s bad for his posture to hunch over the table like this, but Connor has a titanium spine and the only posture at risk here is Gavin’s, and he won’t listen to any advisory tips from Connor. He slides down with his legs sticking awkwardly out the other side of the tabe, and clicks the pen a few times. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Agh, shit, one sec--” Gavin mutters as he reaches over Connor to a mug of undoubtedly cold coffee sitting on his side of the table, momentarily pressing onto Connor in the movement that sends more of that odd stinging sensation through his tactile sensors. “-- gotta get my coffee.” he finishes after pulling it back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes a second for Connor to notice, but the reach has moved Gavin considerably closer to Connor, so far as to leave their shoulders pressed against one another and their thighs to brush occasionally. It’s distracting, which it shouldn’t be-- which is why Connor’s processors uptick and his breathing quickens to expel the new heat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin swipes a paper off the top of the pile, corrects and grades it quickly and then sets it down on the center of the table. ‘KEY!’ has been messily scrawled into the top corner, and Connor figures that’s as good a confirmation to begin as Gavin’s going to give him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a click of the pen’s plunger, Connor slides a few papers off the top and starts his own secondary ungraded pile. After a few slow grades does Connor realize why Gavin hates grading so much-- it’s completely menial, but it takes time to confirm that the student’s answers aren’t an equivalent value, or sometimes just to decipher the truly abhorrent handwriting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though, maybe around ten minutes into the grading, Gavin almost imperceptibly inches closer. Connor doesn’t pay it much mind as it could just be the product of a simple readjustment, but it becomes harder to ignore five minutes later when Gavin does it again, until his shoulder presses firmly onto Connor’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin’s outstretched finger catches the top of Connor’s pen, and dislodges it until it falls to the wooden table with a quiet </span>
  <em>
    <span>click</span>
  </em>
  <span> that seems raucous in the quiet room. The finger continues it’s determined journey as the back of Gavin’s hand begins to run over the back of Connor’s, Gavin’s finger gently pulling at Connor’s pointer in an effort to coax it to turn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Curiously, Connor lays his palm open to the ceiling. He can hear Gavin’s slight intake of breath, as his hand comes to rest on top, fingers slowly threading into the space between his knuckles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor, against his better judgement, turns to look at Gavin in full view. Gavin’s eyes flicker to him at the movement, and Connor’s systems start to stall at the disbelieving, wondered expression on his face, his eyes somehow greener than Connor’s optics can properly perceive and categorize, systems straining. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin opens his mouth to say something, but Connor never gets to hear it. The floor disappears beneath him, and Gavin’s words are lost to nonexistence. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>teacher au &lt;3&lt;3&lt;3 i really like the idea of Gavin being secretly a real people-person and kind of liking kids. I mean, the people person aspect of him would really come into play during those elite Gavin chapters, so i thought it'd be fun to explore that in a different way. </p><p>Also, regarding Connor: denial is one hell of a drug.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. The Sympathy of Undead Things</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>No footsteps precede their entrance, no rustle of cloth, no hum of breathing, just the whisper of a breeze in the hull passing through the rafters.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The threadbare cloth around his eyes chafes uncomfortably against the bridge of his nose, and Connor immediately knows he’s once again human. The crisp, salty scent of what he assumes is the ocean or a sea assaults many of his senses, making his toes curl in discomfort as it seems to coat his now-sensitive skin in a briny and gritty film. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The brutal sun beats the back of his neck in waves, and he can feel it even through whatever thin shirt he’s wearing. Whatever shoes he may have been wearing are no longer on his feet, as he’s led by his tightly bound wrists across searing sand that sticks to his sweaty skin in grainy granules, grinding terribly beneath his toes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gently, he tries to pull his bound wrists away from whoever’s holding them, but the moment he exerts some force against his assumed captors he’s violently yanked back, kicking up scorching sand as he struggles to keep himself upright and from bowling over onto the beach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, a large hand is pressed between his shoulder blades, keeping him at arm’s length as he’s continuing to be led wherever across the beach. But it only takes a vague imprint of the hand for him to recognize it, it’s calluses and finger length-- and he relaxes when he realizes Gavin is the one leading him along. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gavin--” he starts, but a pointed finger jabs painfully into his spine, cutting him off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A gruff voice responds, “Quiet,” but it’s undoubtedly Gavin, so Connor lets himself be pushed onward, listening as the rushing sound of waves approaches in the distance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, his feet start to pad against damp wood, the water lapping beneath him. Gavin’s boots tap heavily against the dock, leading them far out as the spray of the sea begins to wet his ankles and pull some of the grains off his skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, the scent in the air starts to shift from the sharp salty smell of the sea and to something more rich, heady, and musky with the underlying scent of timber. A tense groan of treated wood, a step into shade, and Connor knows he’s been thrust into the shadow of a large ship-- and if the fact it’s wooden is a hint to anything, he’s likely far out of time again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once the sun begins to beat on his neck again, and his bare feet land on warm wood, his blindfold is roughly taken off, peeled over the top of his head. He squints against the screeching assault of sunlight on his ill-adjusted eyes, as several pairs of booted footsteps tap against the wood deck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their silhouettes take a few moments to clear, but he nearly double takes at their clothing. Ratty jackets, breezy linen shirts, and well-worn leather boots with clasps that have long since torn away, he’s fairly certain he was just set in front of a somewhat well-off pirate crew. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My God,” one of them laughs. “Reed actually fuckin’ did it!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a holler, several of the crewmates begin to whoop and celebrate as they eye him ecstatically. A small group of them break off to go attend to something, while the others stare with gazes that begin to make his skin crawl. He steps backwards. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bumps into someone behind him, and the hand that grabs him and pulls him aside instantly puts him at ease as Gavin’s shorter body steps in front of him, frilled sleeve cuffs billowing out from the wrists in his coat, hand raised in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Terms of the ransom said he’d be unharmed if they pay.” Gavin says threateningly, “Hands off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of the men sneers, exchanging glances with his peers. They step down, but their expressions don’t change, save for the more dangerous glints. “We won’t hurt ‘im.” he says. His thumb points backwards, at the hatch. “But they probably might.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor’s head shoots towards Gavin, who sneers at the men. “This shit won’t piss ‘em off. Get out of my sight.” he demands, waving them off. They grumble, but obey anyway, boots tapping on the wood of the deck as they retreat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor doesn’t believe that there is a true captain on the ship, but if anyone’s got some sense of authority it seems to be him. While he’s glad he was able to ward off the more unsavory characters on deck, he’s wary of what lies below deck, now, with the foreboding words of the crew mates. Are there more? A ship this size can’t support more than the people he’s already seen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ship lurches, the flap of sails signalling the rising of the anchors and the taking out to sea. A crisp breeze buffets Connors face and he lets himself close his eyes and enjoy the way the sun feels on human skin, sure that the reality would switch before anything too heinous could happen, or at least Gavin would be there for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he reopens his eyes, it’s to the sight of Gavin, eyes wide, with his slightly longer than usual hair twisting and twirling in the breeze. Connor’s painfully human body freezes on the spot, like a deer in headlights, and his lips part minutely as he fruitlessly searches for words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin snaps out of it first, green eyes blinking back to their senses as he straightens his jacket and turns into the sun. “You’re gonna be in the hold tonight,” he says against the buffeting winds. “Don’t worry if you start seeing shadows. They live here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he leaves it at that, and doesn’t say anything else even when Connor says, “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, Gavin lets Connor walk himself to the hold, though maneuvering some of the ship’s steps and ladders is difficult with his hands behind his back. As they descend downwards, into the parts of the ship that smell less of sea and more of sweat, Connor keeps a close eye on Gavin the entire way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His face stays lowly lit by the lanterns strewn about the more traveled space, his sun-beaten skin glowing in their gentle illumination. While the situation is more than unfavorable, he trusts Gavin to ward off anything unfortunate-- perhaps, besides whatever he was referring to that stayed in the hold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The time shift, while unexpected, isn’t all that surprising considering he’d been farther back with the Roman incident. Seeing Gavin as an outlaw, though… it didn’t sit right with him-- and he doesn’t think it sits well with Gavin, either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, Connor’s thrown into a remote part of the brig, and his bindings are retied around the girth of a wooden post. His blindfold is thankfully not replaced, but Gavin sends a long, odd look his way before making his way out. No words were said, but Connor got the message: stay there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It could be against his better judgement, considering this Gavin is genuinely a pirate, but he chooses to listen and trust him. Gavin can be abrasive, but he can’t be untrustworthy, right? Even as a pirate. Right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even if Connor decided to </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> listen, and to escape, he’s fairly certain getting out of his bindings would require him to dislocate both of his thumbs and he doesn’t want to cause himself the pain, especially if the reality will simply shift and remove him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he sits on the grimy floor, straining to peer through the cracks in the wood, watching moisture drip from his own forehead in the oppressive heat of the hold. Suddenly the top two buttons of his shirt being undone doesn’t seem to be enough to keep him cool, though he’s certain it would be worse if he were in direct sunlight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He expects the floor to get wobbly underneath him, but the only unsteadiness of the wood is the rocking and hawing with the waves, the gentle splash of the water battering the hull in torrents. The air cools as time passes, and he realizes this is the longest he’s been in one place since the Initial.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hours tick by, but Connor can’t truly count the minutes without an internal clock. All he can go by is the cooling of the air and the increasing pang in his stomach, that makes him curl in on himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Footsteps sound through the dark space, but it’s two sets too many to be Gavin. The hunger in his stomach curdles to fear, but he stays silent even as the men round the corner, their silhouettes creating figures larger than life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gag ‘im,” one of them says, holding out a strip of cloth. “I’m lookin’ to get some shuteye tonight. Don’t want this pisscake screamin’ all night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other takes the cloth, kneeling down. Connor scrambles backwards, backing himself up against the pole he’s tied to, a frigid fear spearing through his gut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man scoffs, saying, “Give it a rest,” and grabbing Connor by the cloth of his top, pulling him forward. The cloth is quickly strung through the sides of his mouth and tied firmly behind his head. Any objections he tries to raise are muffled incoherently behind the gag, and the two pirates just look satisfied before walking off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they leave his sight, he untenses and lets himself slide to the floor, loose. He tries to rub the tie on the back of his head up against the pole, to maybe dislodge it, but it doesn’t budge, pressing uncomfortably at the sides of his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets his head fall onto the pole. Why hasn’t the reality switched yet? What’s stopping it from getting him out of this situation?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no answer save for the creaks and groans of the hull, and it’s several more hours of cooling air and eerie silence before anything else happens. He nearly falls asleep, the dreary darkness overtaking the outskirts of his consciousness but the violent growl and pang of his stomach rouses him awake every time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No footsteps precede their entrance, no rustle of cloth, no hum of breathing, just the whisper of a breeze in the hull passing through the rafters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A silhouette steps into view, absolutely silent, and Connor’s heart jumps into his throat, beginning to pound at a rabbit’s pace. The silhouette doesn’t move, just stares, white pinpricks signifying where it’s eyes would be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A whine slips past the gag, Connor’s ragged breathing dragging sound out of his vocal cords. The silhouette stands stone still, it's cold presence making him shiver at the icy sensation on his skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It steps forward, and Connor flinches. He wishes he had his scanners, </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> to decipher this specter and break it down to its core components, but as it stands all it is is something unknown, which sends Connor’s human mind reeling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s the sound of a deep exhale as it steps again, and again, until it stands directly in front of him, radiating frigid air like a block of ice. It’s pinprick eyes pierce through the haze and darkness of the hull, and Connor can’t tear his eyes away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It bends over, one of it’s shadowy, shrouded hands reaching for his face. Connor’s eyes instinctively screw shut as he shimmies his hand in his bindings, trying desperately to find the sweet spot to dislocate his thumbs and slip free-- away from </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s touch ghosts around his face, and prods gently at the knot at the base of his skull, pulling it loose. The gag slides down his chin and he gasps, breaths fast and the only sound in the hull of the ship. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The figure disappears, blinking out of existence just as audible footsteps begin to reverberate down the ladder. It seems as if it had never been there in the first place, but he can still feel it untying the knot to his gag, it’s chilled shadow freezing his skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin rounds the corner, a plate in one hand and a lantern in the other. Seeing Connor’s admittedly pathetic state, he immediately sets the plate of tantalizing food on the ground with the lantern next to it, and scrambles to Connor on his knees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls the gag up and over Connor’s head, inspecting it thoroughly. “They gagged you?” he asks, holding out the cloth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor completely disregards the question. “What-- what the hell was that?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Gavin says, eyes widening. “They came by? Are you hurt?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor shakes his head frantically. “No, no, it didn’t. It… undid the gag.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eyes casting downward, Gavin sits back on his feet and he bites his lip, almost incredulous. After a moment he swivels around and grabs the plate of food and the bent spoon with it, holding it a little awkwardly as he says, “The specters can be… unpredictable. I’m glad they didn’t hurt you-- but, uh, I brought some food. Figured you’d be hungry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am,” Connor confirms, but pulls his arms demonstrably from where they’re tied around the pole.  “I’m a little tied up at the moment, however.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin blinks as his lips part again, and Connor is once again struck by the image of Gavin’s green eyes and wondrous expression in the low light, this time shining Roman armor traded for gleaming buttons and clasps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabs the spoon, holding it aloft, before visibly steeling himself into a more confident attitude. “Let me,” he murmurs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor very nearly drools, overtaken by the human appetite, as the spoon is lifted to his mouth, overflowing with some sort of salted and cooked meat, the scent assaulting his senses. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s an unbelievably strange experience, being spoon-fed by a pirate version of his coworker, but he lets himself enjoy the motion of eating, and the taste that he’s not allowed as an android. The plate gets set on the floor after a few minutes, Connor finishing the bite that Gavin had given him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t like this, this whole ransom thing,” Gavin blurts. “but we need the money.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor won’t say he understands, because he doesn’t believe that piracy is an appropriate way to satisfy your necessities, but he can let it slide. Because Gavin’s not some mindless criminal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, it seems Gavin doesn’t know what to do with his hands, but after some time of resting his hand on Connor’s ankle, he leans forward and shuffles to his side. Connor can’t quite see what his plan is, but the jumbling of the cloth around his wrists and the brush of his knuckles against his wrist makes his face flush terribly warm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bindings release and Connor quickly brings his hands in front of him to rub his wrists where the cloth had dug in too hard, and the skin had been rubbed raw. Gavin tosses the cloth behind him, then quickly grasping Connor’s hands in his, running his fingertips over the chafed skin with gentle touches. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A shiver runs up Connor’s spine as two pinpricks stare from further in the hull, and finally-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally</span>
  </em>
  <span> the floor dissolves. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>PIRATESSS!!! I am very tired so I'm going to just put this up now. I almost left the last ~400 words for tmrw but I decided against it 'cause i don't want to be more behind schedule than I already am. Thanks for reading! :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. God Knows I'm Trying</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>...when had he started to refer to him as his?</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Thumbing the corner of the book in his hand, Connor readjusts his posture on the couch, taking his feet off of the coffee table and setting them flat on the floor. The book is set on the table, sitting innocently in what Connor already assumes is his and Gavin’s shared living space, if the coats on the coat rack are anything to go by. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Phantom tingles of Gavin’s touch caress his wrists, and he finds himself trailing his own fingertips over the site, exhaling a heated breath. His eyes slip shut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> this? Is it an error? It’s unfamiliar, these jolts he gets when Gavin touches him, the heating of his chassis when their eyes lock, and it makes something chilling sink into his sternum. Uncertainty, he identifies, the feeling when you can’t anticipate what happens next. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He needs to sort his thoughts, he thinks, so he swiftly engages himself into a list of what he can come to expect from Gavin. He’d like to be able to connect more, but so far genuinely the only commonality has been Gavin and whatever attributes go along with it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin always has a nose scar, though it can vary in length, source, and severity. No matter what, he always looks like himself, even though he may be battered and bruised or decked out in expensive clothing, and he always has his ear piercing though whether or not it’s actually being used is inconsistent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sometimes has a cat named Sweetie, but in some cases it could be that he’s already had her or has yet to, but her naming is terrifyingly consistent. He in some way is always related to Kamski. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is smart, and likes intellectual conversation even if he tries to hide it with a brash exterior. He enjoys his leather jacket, though it should have been replaced years prior to when Connor sees it. His hands are always the same size, large and square.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks at Connor like he’s worth the world, even if he’s spitting crass curses and pushing him away with vitriolic fury. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor hastily scratches that out, frustrated at his lack of filter. Sure, Gavin’s had a propensity for infatuation, but that doesn’t mean it’s a constant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His approximated memories rouse, a vague, shadowy figure brushing his finger against his chin as a spoon is lifted to his lips. It lingers, he realizes, where a freckle is, electricity dancing over his skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He brushes a finger over the area, perplexed. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>would</span>
  </em>
  <span> call it a constant, but he finds himself desperately searching for something to contradict it-- and he lands on the Initial, where none of his approximated memories hold a trace of an infatuation or desire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But his curiosity begins to take hold of him, and he delves into this Connor’s memories for any sort of evidence. To his satisfaction, he finds that the instance is generally similar to what Connor knows, but Gavin had been a Sergeant during his time at the DPD with the revolution.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin still spits and shoves, but with the clarity and perfect recall fo Connor’s android memory he’s able to pick up on some… interesting details. How Gavin’s heart rate would pick up, his pupils would dilate, how even when he reached to push Connor away his hands would linger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How-- how </span>
  <em>
    <span>infuriating!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Why does Gavin have to be such a mess of contradictions, doing one thing but very clearly thinking the other? It’s too confusing, he can’t wrap his head around it all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Very hesitantly, he uncrosses the possibility out of the list and adds a (?) next to it, but puts right beneath it that Connor is always in his vicinity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If they’re related, he doesn’t think about it. He just pointedly files away the list and listens as a pair of keys jangle in the door and it pushes open. The footsteps stop at the door though, and he can tell Gavin’s caught sight of him and has decided to freeze on the spot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances upwards, and is taken aback by the sheer amount of conflict in Gavin’s face. At the same instance, he looks ready to run to Connor and grab him, but also like he wants nothing more than to run far, far away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin averts his eyes, sliding his shoes and jacket off and putting them where they belong before stiffly making his way to what Connor assumes is his bedroom. The entire time, his gaze shifts uncertainly as Connor watches him move. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He disappears into his bedroom, and Connor feels a strange pang of disappointment filter through his systems and he turns his sight back to the table. Skimming the list, he adds the word ‘Contradictory’ to the list of lasting qualities about Gavin, right underneath where Connor postulates that Gavin might-- that he may be infatuated with him in every reality. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks back to the soulmate instance, where he’d figured their status was due to their reliance on one another for existence, and something in him stirs at the idea. Where he’d once staunchly denied the idea of their interconnectedness, he now somewhat… embraces it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least it’s something he’ll know, no matter what reality he is shoved into. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin peeks around from the corner, and Connor’s eyes fling to his gaze as Gavin begins to bite his lips and crack his knuckles nervously. Why he does this, Connor doesn’t know, but he has a feeling something had happened during work that day that he hadn't seen in his time in his memory banks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He steps out. “I, uh,” he says. “wanted to say sorry for-- for snapping at you at work today.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor shoulders drop from where he’d unconsciously bunched them. How Gavin manages to surprise him, no matter the reality. Though he is curious as to why Gavin is apologizing, he decides to leave himself in the dark, wanting to hear Gavin apologize on a blank slate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin swallows, his pulse beating strongly at the skin on his neck. “I was frustrated but, uh,” he looks pained, as if recalling the specific wording to his apology. Actually, knowing Gavin’s lack of tact when it comes to emotional honesty, he likely actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>planned out his words beforehand. A small pop sounds through the room as Gavin cracks his knuckle, saying, “that’s no excuse to be a fuckin’ dick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Gavin’s eyes finally rise to meet his, it sends something zinging through his biocomponents, kicking on an internal fan or two. Connor, after a moment, shifts across the sofa, making room for another person to be seated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their locked gazes break as Gavin peers at the couch, hunching in on himself and teetering over it and sitting down softly, a very deliberate space between them. Connor wants to say something, but his jaw won’t open and no words come to mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know it’s something you’ve come to expect from me,” Gavin murmurs, head tilted downward. “but it shouldn’t. You’re my partner-- hell, a friend, even, and I gotta treat you better than that.” he runs a hand over his face. “God knows I’m trying. So, I just wanted to say I’m sorry for snapping the shit out of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s sincere, Connor can tell, and by the way Gavin keeps his eyes on the floor, it’s a difficult thing for him to admit. Now, if only </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> Gavin could learn to be so agreeable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>...when had he started to refer to him as </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for apologizing,” Connor says to the side of Gavin’s head. Frustrated as to why this Gavin has no trouble being decent while his is strictly aggressive, Connor asks, “If it’s something you think I’ve come to expect… why apologize to me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watches Gavin’s lips part minutely, and his hands clench and release in his lap. Connor watches with acute awareness as Gavin’s pupils dilate when they trail up to Connor’s face. He closes the internal temperature warning without a thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin opens his mouth a few times like a fish, searching for words. He turns a bit on the couch, until their knees bump, sending sparks up Connor’s leg. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘Cause you deserve better,” Gavin says, looking at Connor as if he’d given him the heavens and torn up hell. His systems shudder as the look stirs something unbelievably warm in his biocomponents, causing his systems to frenzy as they search for the root of the anomaly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor, like the fool he is, says, “What do you think I deserve?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin’s eyes widen, their green somehow beating out the rest of the color in the room. He swallows, looking Connor’s face up and down and finally landing on his lips. They both freeze on the spot, Connor stopping any unnecessary tasks to compensate for the incredible and sudden tax on his processors, and Gavin moving only when his chest rises with his shallow breathing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hand snakes to Connor’s knee, a gentle anchor point against the raging storm in his head--and Gavin turns on the couch some more, his face reflecting all of Connor’s uncertainty with terrifying clarity. Face to face, and Gavin exhales one slight breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is Gavin, Connor thinks. Open and caring for Connor, but not without his flaws. That, in the least, is consistent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As is his love, he also thinks, and everything seems to stop. Something uncomfortable seems to slide sideways, somewhere not quite right but better. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not an infatuation… it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought sends a jolt down Connor’s spine, setting off electrical sparks in his hardware and Gavin-- Gavin just watches, dumbfounded, as Connor grips and grapples with himself, denial and acceptance warring a bloody fight in his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You deserve this,” Gavin whispers, leaning forward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hot ghost of breath on his skin, millions of pinpricks of heat and static at the minuscule point where Gavin’s lips brush his, and Connor suddenly drops through the floor, desperately clawing for an answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries and tries to find it in the emptiness in-between, but the darkness doesn’t answer. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>AN ALMOST-KISS!!! We're movin' along, babey!!!! Connor's definitely caught feelings, but what shall he do with them, if he even recognizes them?? agh, who knows! Thanks for reading!! :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Look At Me, I Exist</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He doesn’t have access to any current databases, but Gavin’s disheveled state screams hallucinations and delirium-- likely drug-induced and forced upon him, if the restraints are anything to go by.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The door is already crumbling underneath Connor’s heel, deadbolt tearing through the door frame and smacking against the wall with a clatter. After the noise halts, Connor takes a moment to glance around him, to find he’s in the most bare essentials as for clothes, clad in white CyberLife slacks and a tank and his jacket nowhere to be seen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s fresh out of a CyberLife plant, and he realizes the suffix of his model number is one digit different, ending with a -52 instead of a -51. His joints are yet to fully calibrated, so his movements can be jerky as he proceeds through the dilapidated home he’s in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His memory is… concerningly fuzzy, but he knows that in his reality, this would be impossible as he is very clearly mint and CyberLife no longer manufactures androids. He’s still falling through reality-- now he just has to find Gavin. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Gavin</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the ghostly name flitters across his consciousness, and Connor’s brand new sensors tingle and spark at it. He’s here for a reason, undoubtedly, and he has a feeling it’s for Gavin despite his shot memory. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His bare feet curl and scrape over the unkempt flooring and rugs he stalks over. He must have been in a rush to not consider a pair of shoes, or maybe a jacket at least. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His regretful musing over his clothes stops when he hears a rustle emanate from behind a door to his left, and unknowing beacon to his tracking programs. Stepping nearer, he listens for anything important-- but it must have been just a misstep on the occupant’s part to create the noise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He raises his hand to open the door as quiet as possible, but suddenly the knob twists and rattles under his palm, the chipping golden finish on it rotating in a sudden and terrifying moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door swings open in front of him, and he’s met with the sight of a shorter man with an extensive criminal record that his scanners happily supply him with and his dumbfounded expression. Immediately the man is reaching for an unregistered firearm in his waistband, but Connor is swift with his punch, and the man’s head snaps back before he falls to the ground, likely concussed and very, very unconscious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks at his hand. He hadn’t meant to hit that hard. Recalibration should be his priority-- after he finds Gavin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stepping over the crumpled body of the man, Connor’s eyes fly to where his sensors tell him another heart beat is residing around the corner. Readying his stance, he slides over ready to take a bullet to his new chassis or to surprise the other person. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stumbles, halting his defensive measures as he rounds the corner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin pants in the ratty chair, his wrists and ankles bound tightly as he pours sweat onto the neckline of his shirt. His eyes flicker manically around the room, barely even recognizing someone’s with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His fever is outstanding, pale skin flushed and waxy all at once. He barely seems in control of his own body as it twitches and he blinks frantically. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gavin?” Connor says, and Gavin flinches, eyes finally landing on him but never staying in the same spot for more than a second. His face contorts as he cringes, shying away from the noise of Connor’s voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin begins to ramble, “No, no, no, not again, please--” as his wrists and ankles begin futilely tugging at their restraints. His already rabbit-fast breathing and heart begin to steadily tick upwards, even as Connor backs away with his hands up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t have access to any current databases, but Gavin’s disheveled state screams hallucinations and delirium-- likely drug-induced and forced upon him, if the restraints are anything to go by. Gavin continues to struggle, even as Connor attempts to minimize his presence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Biting the bullet, Connor delves into his vocal modulator’s programming and dampens it’s output sound by 75% and re-approaches, feeling gutted by the way Gavin tries to scramble away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gavin,” he says again, voice low and unobtrusive. “Please try to slow your breathing,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin shakes his head, rasping, “You’re not real, you never are, please, don’t…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s been hallucinating him? Tentatively, Connor closes some more space between them, Gavin’s flickering eyes, pupils blown impossibly wide and tracking him the entire way. A bead of sweat rolls down through the path that several have taken before it, sliding down the length of Gavin’s neck and into the concave dip of his collarbone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes follow the movement, but he forces his systems out of their strange fascination as finally, hesitantly, Gavin’s breathing begins to even out to more acceptable speeds, though he remains crazed and wary of Connor. That is okay, he can work with this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Usually when Gavin’s freaking out, he’s not tied down. So. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was funnier in his head. But his systems screech and riot at the sight of Gavin suffering, just like they had with the lycanthropy incident, pushing and pulling him towards Gavin in a maddening fight with his rationale. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t be real,” Gavin whispers, his voice likely loud to his own warped perception. “You haven’t been-- you’re not here, you’re--you--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor lets a gentle shush pass past his lips, barely audible with the restrictions he’s put on his vocal modulator. “You’ve been drugged, Gavin. It’s likely that those have been hallucinations.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No shit!” Gavin barks. “How the fuck do you think I know you’re not real? I’m not-- fuckin’... dense.” Pants of greedy attempts at fresh air punctuate his words, silting the sentence. Gavin’s voice is raspy, frayed at the edges from what Connor suspects to be screaming. “I’m talking to fuckin’ ghosts,” Gavin laments painfully, hissing when his muscles cramp and shake violently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ghost?” Connor asks before he can stop himself </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin suddenly looks very queasy, his eyes unfocused for a moment as he’s thrown into a memory or maybe another hallucination. It lasts no longer than a minute, but when Gavin’s eyes clear and his pupils dilate and drown out the green once again, he’s shaking harder than before. “You’re fuckin’ dead, and even if you were some shitty ghost-- I wasn’t kind to you-- you should </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate </span>
  </em>
  <span>me--” Gavin says tightly. “That’s why you can’t be real.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A quiet settles over the two, Gavin’s gasps and teeth clacking together the only things to pierce it. Gavin thinks he’s dead-- and with him fresh off the CyberLife manufacturing belt, he probably had been. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gavin,” Connor pleads, “I’m okay, look at me,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Green eyes snap to him, wide and barely coherent, his jaw clenched so tightly Connor registers the risk of Gavin cracking one of his own teeth with the monumental force. Once they part, Gavin’s pale lips separate in a rasp of, “You don’t exist.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something heavy sinks through Connor, making his Thirium feel leaden and sluggish as his chin flexes beyond his own control. He lightly takes his hand and rests it upon Gavin’s, which is still bound to the chair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His entire body jerks at the touch, his eyes blinking and shooting around, rolling around manically in their sockets. The sensation likely sent his sensation into overdrive, but Connor watches carefully as his heart slows minutely, as does his breathing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look at me, I exist.” Connor says. “I exist because of you, Gavin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A moment of silence, and Gavin’s face contorts as his eyes begin to shine. His lips disappear into his mouth as he desperately tries to stifle whatever mounting emotions that threaten to spill with the help of the delirium and the hallucinogens, and finally, the moisture that gathers in his lids begins to spill over with a cry of, “You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>dead</span>
  </em>
  <span> because of me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin shakes now, but it’s no longer because of the drugs, it’s because the force of his sobs wrack every muscle in his body in waves of shocks. Connor’s hands fly to the restraints and try to untie them, but when the knots prove too sturdy he takes advantage of his uncalibrated strength and simply tears them off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once the bindings on his ankles release, Gavin lunges out of the chair and onto the grimy floor on his hands and knees, head tucked into his chest as tears drip onto the floor and wash away dirt one drop at a time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor’s seen Gavin cry before, in the very first instance they’d met. But now it takes on new meaning, now that he knows Gavin cares-- and could quite possibly even love. Gavin’s crying for him, right now, and Connor can’t help the way he hastily gathers the shaking form into his arms, tucking Gavin’s wet face into his shoulder and holding his hands firmly on his back, willing the tremors to cease. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The way Gavin accepts the embrace makes his systems sing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m so sorry,” Gavin chokes, “I shouldn’t have been an asshole to you, I’m so sorry, I never meant for any of this to happen--” words slips past his lips in disjointed streams, jumping from concept to idea to apology all within one sentence, and Connor tries as hard as he can to file it all away, however irrational the urge is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin tries -- he knows that -- because no matter how or what way Connor spins it, Gavin wants to love him. Though his own contradictory personality can trump his desire to try to be better, Connor knows he wants to. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>can </span>
  </em>
  <span>care, and Connor’s starting to think he can love, too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The question </span>
  <em>
    <span>why me?</span>
  </em>
  <span> is pushed away for now, along with the question of </span>
  <em>
    <span>what am I experiencing?</span>
  </em>
  <span> that is more forcefully shoved to the background. But that doesn’t stop it from drifting past his systems whenever Gavin’s hands gently flex on the square of his back, or when Gavin finally looks up and their eyes meet and his entire form just lights up like an LED, bright and boisterous and something he can’t put his finger on because he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>afraid</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why is he </span>
  <em>
    <span>afraid?</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Uh oh, Connor seems awfully close to having an epiphany.................... watch out!!!! It could be explosive (or it could be a very gentle realization and very very soft....... it's a surprise :))</p><p>OH and thanks for absolutely LOVING that pirate chapter! I saw more caps lock in the comments than I think i've ever seen before. Thank you so much, and thanks for reading! See you tomorrow! :) &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Sticks and Stones</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Connor finds out why Gavin calls him names.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A touch hovers over his shoulder, and it’s completely mundane until he identifies whose it is. The moment he can recognize it, the touch trails sizzling sparklers as it glances over his skin in beautifully terrifying waves. He realizes, somewhat late, that he’s shirtless-- but he barely computes it, not with the overwhelming sensation of Gavin’s nails catching on his skin taking up most of his processing power. There's a different aspect to it, though, and a glance reveals white plasteel in the shape of Gavin's hand.</p><p>He isn't able to suppress the jolt of surprise, but Gavin's hand doesn't move from it's spot. Connor's eyes follow the plating lines, wondering if this Gavin is also and androids, but it stops very abruptly at the middle of his arm, above the elbow.</p><p>A prosthetic, he figures. Cutting edge, especially if you factor in his relation to Kamski as a direct source of technology. He wonders if this is an identical reality to the first one Connor had been dropped into, but he doesn't have enough data on that first one to really compare.</p><p>He hears Gavin hum from behind him, murmuring, “You’re tense,”</p><p>At the observation, he tries to lower his shoulders as inconspicuously as possible, but he can hear a huff of laughter from behind him. Frowning, Connor says, “It’s not been easy recently. So excuse me.”</p><p>“I wasn’t laughing at you,” Gavin says, his hand not leaving Connor’s bare shoulder. Gently, a face comes to rest on his shoulder blade and Connor thinks, <em> Oh, it’s one of these realities </em>, with less surprise or indignation than he should have. Gavin says into his back, “Is everything alright at the precinct with Hank away?”</p><p>Though the feeling of Gavin’s breath on his bare shoulder sends innumerable electrical signals to his tactile hub, at the mention of Hank he feels as if there’s a stone in his chassis, weighing him down. He’d almost forgotten-- and that makes the stone heavier. </p><p>How could Hank leave his mind, for even a moment? Connor says, “Just some extra name-calling, that’s all. Sticks and stones.”</p><p>Gavin takes Connor’s deflection very seriously, lifting his head from Connor’s back and gently turning him around. Their eyes search one another’s faces for a moment, before Gavin says, “Hey, no ‘sticks and stones’ bullshit, that shit hurts.”</p><p>Connor gives him a very pointed look, which turns Gavin’s skin a concerning shade of red that reaches his ears. He mentally berates himself-- he shouldn’t take his frustration about Hank out on Gavin, but Gavin’s already picking it up. </p><p>“Do you wanna… tell me about it?” Gavin says. “Hank’s gonna come back.”</p><p>Connor viciously tamps down the fury that threatens to boil his Thirium. Gavin couldn’t know. He couldn’t possibly even have a glimpse into his struggles, so he should let it slide. </p><p>He does, and Gavin takes the moment of quiet to guide the both of them to the beat up sofa that Connor’s seen more than once, now. Gavin’s hand never leaves his forearm even after they sit, and it feeds a hum of feedback into Connor’s systems that echoes. </p><p>The opportunity to talk is there. It’s parallel enough to his own situation that he might get something productive out of it, and Gavin might have something interesting or constructive to say in return. </p><p>Connor opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He tries again, but it feels as if he’s locked out of his own vocal modulation system as he tries to force any sound out. There’s nothing, and he vaguely registers Gavin’s mounting concern when the hand on his forearm squeezes gently, his own synth-skin receding to match Gavin's bare hand. </p><p>“Hey,” Gavin whispers. “He’s only in Chicago, Con. He’ll be back in a few months.”</p><p>A hand drifts to his face and runs a knuckle over his cheek, and Connor nearly jolts when it pulls away with moisture beading on the scarred skin. Gavin slowly wipes the fluid onto his shirt, and Connor begins to try and wick away any that had lasted on his arms, scarcely noticing how some of his skin had receded on his face under Gavin's gentle touch.</p><p>“I-- I just miss him,” Connor says, as if that could even begin to encapsulate his feelings. So much for taking advantage of the parallel. “I worry.”</p><p>Gavin nods. “I’m sure it doesn’t help that the assholes over in Illinois won’t let him talk to us.” He mutters something akin to <em> focus on the case, my ass </em> under his breath, and Connor’s lips twitches. “But he keeps in contact with Fowler, at least, and he is -- eventually -- gonna come back.”</p><p>It makes sense with this reality, but Connor’s fears are a little different. He hopes Gavin won’t notice the disjointed replies he’s going to give. His chest clenches something fierce, a blue sort of dreariness making it difficult to regulate his artificial breathing. </p><p>“What if I don’t see him again?” Connor says as evenly as possible, trying to invoke some insight on Gavin’s part. There’s no intelligent gleam in his eye, but there is a certain soothing warmth that sends a rush down Connor’s titanium spine. “I-- I’m afraid he’s gone, or--or--”</p><p>Gavin shushes him, just like Connor had to him in the previous reality. It’s gentle, unbelievably so, and Connor’s mouth slowly closes as Gavin’s hand travels up his arm and to the base of his neck, not squeezing. Just. Staying there, causing his systems to sing and his skin to shimmer.</p><p>“What if he comes back?” Gavin says. “What if he turns purple, and joins Scientology? They’re just what-ifs, Connor, and you know there’s no reason you won’t see him again. But-- I’ll be here, I promise. No matter what.”</p><p>Some bleak part in Connor laughs at that. He’ll be here whether or not he realizes <em> why-- </em>but there’s something that soothes Connor, that he knows no matter how long he goes without seeing his Hank, Gavin, in whatever crazy capacity the reality has, will always be there. </p><p>“Thank you,” Connor whispers, his vocal modulator struggling to output any sound at all due to the rushing in his ears. For a moment, his balance seems to shift, and he finds himself leaning into Gavin, who willfully supports him even as his touch sends ripples through his sin</p><p>Gavin’s hand on Connor’s neck begins to fiddle with the short, cropped hairs there. It's not often Connor deactivates his skin, so he lets it happen where Gavin's prosthetic coaxes it out. “I’m serious about the names, by the way. They keep that shit up and I’ll see to them personally.”</p><p>The conviction is his voice makes Connor crack a weak smile, considering Gavin had been the one to call him names in the first place. But as he’s found out, the contradictory parts of Gavin are what make him interesting. </p><p>Though, his curiosity still pokes at him. “Why… <em> did </em> you seem so keen on calling me names, when we first met?”</p><p>Again, that vibrant flush begins to crawl up Gavin’s neck. Averting his eyes, Gavin bites his lips.</p><p>“Uh,” Gavin says sheepishly. “It’s kinda hard to explain.”</p><p>Oh-- so it wasn’t purely out of his hatred for androids, then? He assumes that would be an easy topic to dictate, so now, though he’s trembling from the emotional overload not a few minutes ago, he is desperately curious. “I’m a good listener.”</p><p>A wheeze of a laugh. “Well. You fuckin’ scared me, for one. Right outta my pants, yeah-- uh, I was kinda taken aback by how much I… wanted to not hate you, I guess?” he sucks on his teeth. “After a while I realized I had never hated you, and I was just being a dick to keep you away. ‘Cause... you made me feel things, like fuckin’ crazy, Con. I was afraid, you were an android and yet still your touch made me-- explode, or something, like you set my skin on fire whenever we would touch, and it had been so long since I’d felt like that.” he says. He looks up at Connor and says, “I didn’t want to confront how much I wanted to love you.”</p><p>Connor’s mouth dries of any sterilization fluid that may have gathered there. His whole body feels tacky, all of the sudden, like he’s about to crawl out of his own skin. </p><p>The aspect about wanting to love Connor confirms his original suspicion that Gavin’s desire to love him could very much be a personality constant for him-- but that’s so trivial compared to the barrage of information that Connor’s systems begins to stir and spit at him, all accented by the thought:</p><p>Is that what <em> I’m </em> feeling?</p><p>He immediately casts the thought away. He and Gavin likely experience everything very differently-- who’s to say that Gavin would feel the exact way about Connor that he feels about Gavin that he feels about Gavin that he feels about Gavin that he feels about Gavin--</p><p>Wait, wait, wait.</p><p>He forcefully shuts the loop, narrowly avoiding an involuntary soft reboot at the sign of system failure. His systems wouldn’t have failed, but the safeguard is there for a reason in the case he can’t end it by himself, and if he had just got a little more caught in the cyclical thought…</p><p>Well, it would have been one hell of a scare for Gavin.</p><p>Now, he carefully avoids the thought topic in order to keep the loop trigger off his mind, but it still leaves him shaken and confused. He’d thought he came into this reality with more answers, but somehow, he’s ended up with more questions. </p><p>Gavin leans his head onto Connor’s shoulder, and somehow, the cacophony of noise within his skull abates in the wake of his skin sparking in wondrous fire. At least he knows Gavin will be here-- and maybe he can worry about the what-ifs when he’s more capable. </p><p>For now, though, he just lets Gavin’s touch make fireflies out of his sensors and turn his synth-skin into a quilt of beige and white. He hopes that he can catch a glimpse of Hank in the next reality, but he can rely on Gavin to be there no matter what.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>uh oh, we might have to wait for a human!con chap to really tackle the issue of his feelings for Gavin, with all those system errors... (spoiler: hank may or may not be a part of it :))</p><p>Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed! See you tomorrow. :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. How Did We End Up Like This</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Of course, though, there's a hitch: there's a magnificent fish tail hanging out the other side of the tub, twitching lazily as Gavin's eyes begin to roam.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He stands unsteadily on the outside of what seems to be a bathroom door, in an unfamiliar home. His bare feet, with small amounts of salt dried onto his ankle, rub against the cold tiling of the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reaching down, he gathers some of the salt residue on his ankle to his fingertips and raises it to his mouth, where his oral analysis sensors begin to pick apart its chemical composition. There’s no taste of salt like he’d had when Gavin fed him on the ship, but he pushes away the slight disappointment in favor of reading the information. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s dried salt from what Connor had assumed to be the ocean, but there’s slight remnants of water purification chemicals. Had he been wading in a saltwater fish tank?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dredges of uncertainty that this Connor had left him begin to filter away, replaced with curiosity. He’s sure any Connor would be sure to rid himself of the grime as fast as possible. Perhaps that’s why he’s standing in front of a bathroom, in order to wipe off some of the mysterious residue on his ankles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he opens the door, fully expecting there to be some twist or unexpected factor in this reality’s equation. Of course, he’s right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin’s smug visage smirks at him from the bathtub, his tanned skin reflecting the light that squeezes through the room from the mirror lights. Water sloshes precariously close to the rim of the basin as Gavin adjusts his position, arms splayed widely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, though, there’s a hitch: there’s also a magnificent, shimmering fish tail hanging loosely out the other side of the tub that twitches lazily as Gavin’s eyes begin to roam. The scales, a rich, deep green, reflect bits of shining gold as they shift. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now that he has a good enough grasp on the shock of Gavin being some sort of mer-person, he is able to examine his form in Connor’s bathtub. Thin lines adorn the side of Gavin’s neck-- gills, he realizes, but that also raises the question of how he’s able to breathe properly in the air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And-- Connor nearly scoffs at himself at his failure to recognize it earlier -- the hands that laxly curl around the rim sparkle with the occasional scale, and are webbed for the first two knuckles and have dangerous looking claws protruding from the tips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor curses himself for again not checking his memory logs, but at this point it’s almost become a tradition to go in blind. Let it surprise him, at least. But honestly, sometimes it might not be worth the trouble. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Gavin says. His vowels shape differently, and Connor realizes a little belatedly that his teeth are sharper than a humans, likely impeding his usual speech patterns. “Nice, uh, tub you got here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Watching Gavin’s gills flex as he speaks, Connor takes maybe a moment too long to respond. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything larger,” he says sincerely. Packing into a measly bathtub must be more than uncomfortable, considering a large portion of his tail hangs long enough for the fin to brush the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin’s head turns as he shrugs, and Connor catches a glimpse of a spines dorsal fin that runs it’s webbed spines from the base of Gavin’s skull and down past the point he can see with the tub in the way. The tail flicks upwards minutely. “It’s fine. I’m willing to feel a little fuckin’ discomfort for now as long as if--” his eyes darken and his lip peels back in a sneer. “I ain’t goin’ back to that shithole.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘That shithole’, Connor finds after a moment of memory searching, is referring to a marine research facility that Connor is employed at. He highly doubts that he’ll keep his job after this stunt of helping their prized specimen escape. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had snuck Gavin out in a wrap of damp towels, as apparently the scales can dry and flake off when exposed to air for too long. Connor’s eyes drift to Gavin’s tail, where it looks like Gavin has tried to wet the scales with his hand, but hadn’t gotten far due to the tub’s restrictive space. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It looks frustrating, and before Connor can really think about it, he’s grabbing a kitchen chair and a sponge. The chair squeaks uncomfortably against the tile of the bathroom, but once he’s settled it in place and takes a seat, he sits awkwardly as Gavin watches him with unveiled interest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Connor raises the sponge to the tepid water of the tub, letting it soak up the water, Gavin’s tail twitches in what seems to be an involuntary movement, if Gavin’s flush is anything to go by. “I, uh, tried to keep ‘em wet, but it just wasn’t working with the space,” he bites his lip. “Thanks, if you’re gonna do what I think you are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor simply nods, raising the sponge to Gavin’s tail-- but not before running a hand over the dry scales, then following with the wet sponge. Out of his peripheral vision, he watches Gavin sigh in relief and close his eyes, tilting his head back as his scales are dampened once again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s imperceptible to human sight, but Gavin’s tail begins to minutely lean into Connor’s touch, almost coming to meet the sponge as it drips onto his tail. At some point, the fin on Gavin’s tail barely brushes the skin on his thigh where his shorts end, and Connor’s eyes slip shut at the wonderful vines of warmth it spreads over his skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands continue to dampen the scales, and he watches with interest as the green seems to sharpen and shine under the water. He hadn’t realized how dehydrated they must have been until now -- but wanting to hide it seems to be a very Gavin thing to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Connor reaches the fins, he hears Gavin sigh, “How did we end up here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The water sloshes as he readjusts again, and Connor abandons his peripheral vision in favor of looking directly at Gavin, and that peculiar rush of sensation that stems from his sternum fights his rational thought. On Gavin’s face lay a warm smile, eyes half-lidded and saturated with affection that makes Connor feel like he’s melting from the inside out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mind flicks back to the previous reality, but there’s a very clear self-placed warning in front of the approximation, telling him to wait until he won’t go into a loop over the information. He heeds the warning, steering clear of it, but he wonders how or if he’ll be able to think about it in depth without going into a loop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was so fucking afraid I’d be stuck in that tank for the rest of my miserable life,” Gavin says. “So, uh, thanks for helping me get out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The nonchalant wording is overshadowed by the genuine tone of voice Gavin uses. Again, that melt-y feeling pervades his chassis and he struggles to focus. But he does know how much it had hurt this Connor to just watch Gavin suffer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor himself knows the feeling well, and deciding that this Connor would need all the help he can get, he grabs a few bath towels from a cabinet and soaks them in the water. Their weight pulls down on Connor’s arms as he lifts them to Gavin’s tail, and he begins to thickly wrap the scales to keep them wet and from flaking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he finishes, he steps back from the tub and the tail and makes sure the towels won’t slip from their place from a distance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something sharp pokes the back of his hand, and he flinches away from it. Gavin’s outstretched arm reaches toward him, but his claw must have poked him in the stretch. Righting himself from where he’d recoiled, he lets Gavin tentatively take his hand and pull him closer to the rim. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin, now more wary of his claws, brings Connor to the very side of the tub, so close that the moisture on the whiteness begins to soak a line into his shorts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their eyes lock, like they have dozens of times before, but the burst of something incredible in his chest never fails to be terrifyingly wonderful and new. Connor feels the irrational urge to touch Gavin, to know him like the stars know the darkness that holds them together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor sets his hand on top of Gavin’s and marvels at the similarities and contrasts, how the callus at the base of his palm persists but it’s accented by dark scales, and the webbing between the knuckles somehow softer than the skin itself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fascination leaves very little processing power for much else, but he can see the way Gavin’s gills flex as his mouth opens and closes as he tries to say something; how his pupils dilate and his breathing slows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin’s hand moves up his arm and to his chest, where the fabric of his shirt is grabbed and tugged forward. Connor leans forward with the motion, as Gavin’s face gets closer to his and he can feel his breath on his nose. He doesn’t worry about the fact that Gavin’s claws could easily be puncturing holes into his shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he thinks about is Gavin, Gavin, Gavin -- and even so when the floor melts beneath him.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>guys.... i can't believe I'm saying this but ~25 days in and I'm kinda running out of aus LOL good thing I was able to go 'oh! mermaids!' and keep this au nice and fresh. Only a couple of days left!!</p><p>Thanks so much for reading, and see you tomorrow! :) &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. So Happy I Could Die</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Gavin has a rattlesnake in his hood? That can hardly be safe.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The sun lights up the park with a cheery sort of shine. Light bounces off of the green leaves, swaying and full with summer’s vitality and youth as children of various sizes stumble and sprint through the grassy expanse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>From his spot on a bench, baked warm by the sun, Connor leans back and enjoys the scene, expecting Gavin to stroll up any second. While he waits, though, he’ll enjoy the brief reprieve from the hectic scenes he’s been pushed through. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though, in the back of his mind, he carefully postulates the self-imposed warning around the train of thought. He tries to be careful, he really does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That Gavin had said he was cruel to Connor because he was afraid. Or at least afraid of what he was feeling towards him, with the desire to love being overbearing and new. Connor understands that part-- identifies with it, even. But what he doesn’t understand is how that relates to what </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> feeling, it’s similarities, or even if it’s the same it’s the same it’s the same it’s the same it’s the same--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn it! He feels as if he’s on the precipice of disaster and heaven all at once, but he’s violently shoved backwards by his own incessant loop errors every time. He huffs, frustrated, and tears his attention back to the bark, wary that getting caught in the loop again would require a soft reboot in public. Not ideal in the slightest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Almost as if on cue, Gavin’s boots begin crunching the gravel pathways, but the sound doesn’t drag him back to the Initial, where he’d done the same -- no, he simply smiles, as Gavin approaches. His steps stutter as he registers Connor’s expression, and Connor’s chest warms at the struck look on his face. They’re not too familiar in this reality yet. That’s refreshing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, hey Connor,” Gavin says. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here, to be honest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor shrugs, looking out towards the stretch of grassy knolls. “It’s a beautiful day outside. It’d be a shame if I missed it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A small smile forms on Gavin’s lips, and it’s been so long since they’ve been acquaintances that Connor lets himself enjoy a more familiar side of Gavin, though definitely less callous than his Gavin, from the Initial.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span>. A little confusion and uncertainty filters through his Thirium, but it’s swiped away when something catches his eye. He’d seen something flick around Gavin’s neck for a moment, a little too fast for Connor’s opticals to process, but enough to glance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had almost looked like -- oh!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A snake of some sort slinks around the side of Gavin’s throat and sticks there for a moment, it’s dark eyes peering at Gavin. After a moment’s view of it, Connor is able to identify it as a rattlesnake native to Michigan, with it’s boxy head sitting comfortably near the crevice of Gavin’s jaw. He doesn’t look alarmed in the slightest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin has a rattlesnake in his hood? That can hardly be safe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He must pick up on Connor’s change in attitude, because his tentative smirk drops, and his eyes are drawn to the rattlesnake and he winces for an instant before covering it up with a nonchalant air. “Yeah, s’a great day out. Thought we’d get some fresh air.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor nods, relaxing. It’s a pet of sorts, then, and it seems to be very comfortable in Gavin’s hood as it slinks around the side of his neck. No danger here, at least not to Gavin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The snake continues to peer at Connor with it’s small droplet eyes, tongue occasionally poking outwards to taste the air. As Connor looks and becomes more comfortable, Gavin’s eyes seem to gleam as he gently runs two fingers over the snake's head and back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a snake, but Connor can’t get the feeling out of his mind that it is acutely aware of what is going on around it, perceiving it on a higher level than a normal snake would. It’s uncanny, but Connor’s willing to deal with the snake’s gaze if it makes Gavin happy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The snake’s eyes catch a peculiar strand of light, however, and suddenly Connor is witnessing the snake seem to fold in on itself. In an instant, a sharp-eyed mink is draped alluringly over Gavin’s shoulders, as if a living fur stole. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What? Connor replays the memory log to confirm his eyes aren’t deceiving him, and he gets to view the change in excruciating detail once more, where a snake compacts and a mink appears. Had the snake just transformed into a mammal?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A helpful -- though a little late -- window of information brings itself up to Connor’s view, about familiars. It’s not a snake or a bird-- it’s some amorphous entity known as a familiar, that imprints on humans in early adulthood and stays with them until death. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s… a little more significant than a pet, then. From what it looks like, familiars are considered lifelong companions, like family almost. Gavin’s file is pulled up as well, and the name ‘Sweetie’ is typed next to a brief heading about familiars. Then this familiar is Gavin’s lasting Sweetie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s definitely not a cat, that’s for sure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now completely at ease with the influx of information, Connor scoots to the left on the bench and makes space for another person... and a familiar that never takes her eyes off of Connor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another human walks past them, with a small bird perched on their shoulder, but an android follows with no such animal near. It must be a human-only thing, these imprints. He wonders if androids will ever get thim, like Connor had been able to do magic in that one reality. It would be interesting, to have a lifelong companion like that.  <br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin, after a long moment of silence where he seems to be arguing with himself, seats himself a comfortable distance away from Connor on the bench. It’s a little anticlimactic until the mink on Gavin’s shoulder begins to rumble and purr like a cat, though higher pitched. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin’s face pales considerably, but he doesn’t do anything to stifle it. The mink continues to purr in the sun, rolling and tossing over Gavin’s shoulder like it would make Gavin more appealing--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wait, is that what she’s doing? Trying to make Gavin look more appealing to Connor? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A little grin overtakes Connor’s face. Gavin’s unwilling to bend for Connor’s attention, but his familiar picked up on his desire and is apparently willing to do it for him. A partner indeed, that must be attuned to Gavin in some way or another. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mink continues to expose her soft, luxurious fur against Gavin’s leather jacket, and Connor feels a vague sense of affection begin to filter into his chassis. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It couldn’t hurt if he just-- sidled a little closer? Just close enough for Gavin’s jeans to brush his though, and their shoulders to bump. Nothing drastic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the way Gavin’s familiar begins chittering excitedly, you’d think Connor had just given him the moon. Now too close to properly observe the mink without having his face in Gavin’s ear, Connor can’t really see what she’s doing-- but he can see the way Gavin’s face lights up in a vibrant red that reaches his ears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he can register it, the mink swiftly jumps onto Connor’s shoulder and nuzzles up against his jaw and cheek, little vibrations running through her long, soft body. Gavin looks about ready to explode, even reaching for the mink in surprise to pull her back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That is, until Connor chuckles delightedly and begins to rub her little head. Gavin’s arms drop as he stares nervously. Eventually he sidles back up to Connor, and Connor can almost feel the way that the mere clothed contact of their thighs sends Gavin into fits of shimmering static -- just like he makes Connor feel makes Connor feel makes Connor feel makes Connor feel makes Connor--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A small, wet tongue pokes at his earlobe, and he snaps out of the loop immediately to guide what he is sure is a set of pin teeth away from his ear. Sweetie had pulled him out, thank goodness, and there’s a certain aspect to her eyes that makes Connor think she may have known what was happening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sneaky little thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You seem awfully happy,” Connor says to her vaguely smug visage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So happy I could die,” Gavin says with enough sincerity to catch Connor off guard. Gavin’s eyes flick to him and his familiar, and they widen considerably. “Shit, you were talking to her, weren’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor figures his smile is answer enough. Gavin sheepishly smiles back, and Connor feels like he’s been plated with solid gold on the inside, reflecting incredible heat every direction with grand color. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin eyes his familiar with his warm green eyes. “Hey, whose familiar do you think you are?” he says jokingly, and despite the animalistic face, he can somehow pick up on a distinct note that she’s very unimpressed. Gavin just rolls his eyes as Sweetie goes back to enthusiastically barraging Connor with attention and love, rolling on his shoulders, rubbing on his neck, and burying her little snout in the short hairs at the base of Connor’s skull.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few long moments of affection that doesn’t feel like it’s entirely Sweetie’s, she drapes herself onto his shoulders and closes her eyes, seemingly content with her work. Connor’s sensors pick up on her heartbeat and Gavin’s simultaneously, and he’s struck by the poly-rhythmic yet on tempo beating of their hearts. Gavin finally speaks up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s not gonna let me move her. We might be stuck a while.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a beautiful day outside,” Connor repeats, glancing Gavin’s way with a wry tilt of his head.  “I don’t mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin’s face flushes crimson again, but he seems perfectly content sitting on the bench with Connor for the foreseeable future. At some point, he closes his eyes to enjoy the warm sun on his skin, and Connor can’t help but stare, even as the mink's tail swishes contentedly on his chest where it hangs. <br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>On his shoulder, a small eye opens, shining with a clever glint. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'M NOT OUT OF AUS YET!!!!!!!! Honestly this au was kind of a stroke of genius. I was so stuck and it hit me-- familiars!! Agh, gotta love them. I especially like the idea of 1.) the familiars being able to change shape, and b.) the familiars and the imprinted having a vague mental link, hence Sweetie just absolutely going ham with Connor and all of Gavin's repressed affections. Ugh, it's too good. </p><p>Thanks for reading, see you tomorrow!! :) &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Boys Will Be Boys</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"Please?" Fletcher Reed please, hastily tugging on someone's hand into the doorway. "If we get too cold we'll go back inside, I promise!"</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Connor blinks, taken aback by the very sudden change in weather. One moment he’d been sitting on a bench soaking up the late summer sun, and the next he’s sitting on a front porch on a still, winter evening. </p><p>Well, maybe still is a little bit of the wrong word to use. Through the front door behind him, he can hear a hum and bustle of what he assumes to be a family Christmas party, if the weather and date are anything to go by. For a moment, the house falls silent with one hushed voice recounting something sagely, then there’s a raucous burst of laughter following soon after.</p><p>A Christmas party. He’s never been to one. Never really had the chance in the Initial. Though the DPD does hold annual Christmas parties, the one for 2038 had been forgone in the wake of the Revolution, as everything was still getting sorted out and there was no time. </p><p>Though, that would have been a work Christmas party, and he’s fairly certain that the one in progress inside is a family party, and a fairly large one at that. Whose it is is a little bit of a tough question, as Connor doesn’t really know the context around this reality. </p><p>He perks up when he hears a familiar baritone cut through the noise, close to the front door. After a moment, it’s pushed open and a myriad of homely scents waft out; home-cooked food, beer, and scented candles blend together in a scent profile that this Connor just has labelled, <em> Christmas. </em></p><p>The screen on the door hisses shut, and before it closes there’s another person sitting next to him with a plate containing a more than healthy helping of food. A beer bottle clinks against the concrete step as it’s set down. </p><p>Gavin looks good, he thinks after a once-over. Content, maybe even at peace-- which is a rare sight for such a turbulent man. He’s not quite as fit or toned and has rounded out just a bit, but he’s still undeniably Gavin in the way that his stubble grows and his eyes gleam. </p><p>The plate wafts up wispy strands of steam into the chill air, and his systems pull up a personal recipe of Gavin’s; of lasagna he says he’s finally gotten ‘just right’. </p><p>“Whatcha doin’ out here by yourself?” Gavin asks, his words melting into clouds the moment they leave his lips. “Everyone’s loving that you’re here. You okay?”</p><p>Connor finally tears his eyes away from Gavin’s, to gaze out at the sparkling snow and enjoy how there’s no breeze and the night seems impossibly peaceful. “It’s beautiful,” he says, and after a moment he adds, “And I needed a little bit of a breather.”</p><p>A laugh cuts through the space between them. “Yeah, they can be a lot sometimes,” he says. “I don’t blame you. A lot better than my dad’s side, though, that’s for sure.”</p><p>Connor nods, assuming he means the Kamski half of his lineage. That would have to be quite the experience, a party with the Kamskis. </p><p>Gavin’s jeans brush his as he closes the gaps between their bodies, and the material of his gaudy ‘Let’s get lit!’ Hanukkah sweater, adorned with a smiling menorah, rubs on his arm. Connor’s chest fills again with a warmth that trumps the weather, recalling a memory from this reality of Gavin saying he’s not Jewish, but all ugly sweaters deserve to be worn. </p><p>Looking down, Connor snickers when he sees he’s wearing a sweater from what seems to be the same set, with a dancing dreidel proudly displayed over the front. </p><p>They fall silent, but there’s no sort of tension or bated breath between them. Just pleasant company, and Gavin begins to dig into his own lasagna with fervor, occasionally stopping to sip his beer. </p><p>Connor breathes in and out slowly, struck suddenly by the domesticity of the scene and the thrill of electricity that follows the realization. He knows his cheeks tint blue, and he leans into Gavin’s side just a bit, but he feels a flash of frustration when a specific aspect of the whole sensation is carefully walled off by himself, tucked behind a loop warning. </p><p>A hand sets a fork down and runs to Connor’s head, ruffling his hair gently (to his mild chagrin) before exerting a gentle pressure to lead his head to the side, onto Gavin’s shoulder. Connor revels in the way that his temple receives and categorizes the body heat seeping through Gavin’s god-awful sweater. </p><p>The hand then moves to gently intertwine with Connor’s on his lap, threading their fingers loosely. His hand is warm, Connor thinks, and doesn’t think twice to deactivate some of the skin on his hand to sap some more from Gavin. </p><p>Gavin just… thrums with some sort of life that outshines the bright moon poking past the bare tree branches like fingers gently caressing an orb of the late evening glow. He seems more than happy to provide and share it with Connor, sending bursts of wonder and sparks of affection through his arm as Connor takes them happily.</p><p>The moment is somewhat broken when the porch light flickers on, and the door opens. Connor raises his head from Gavin’s shoulder to peer behind him, and he’s met with the wide, childish gaze of a kid, maybe about six or seven years old by the look of it. </p><p>Connor’s only begun to connect the green of the child’s eyes with what he’s already familiar with when the child shouts, “Dad, dad! Can Uncle ‘Lijah and I play in the snow?”</p><p>Gavin turns his whole body to address him, eyes soft. Wonder fills Connor at the prospect of Gavin being a father in this reality-- and how well it has apparently treated him. </p><p>“I dunno, Fletch, it’s pretty cold out here.”</p><p>“Please?” Fletcher Reed pleas, hastily tugging on a hand to the porch. “If we get too cold we’ll go inside, I promise!”</p><p>None other than Elijah Kamski stumbles out the door, looking incredibly disgruntled but not annoyed enough to tell the kid off. He looks considerably different than what Connor’s used to, with short sides grown out the same length as the top and tied near the bottom of his skull, pulled back enough to show off the black ring on his ear. </p><p>He’s also considerably dressed down -- though really, Connor’s only real experience with him was in a bathrobe if you don’t count that one reality -- with dark jeans and sweater, though notably not of the ugly variety. His appearance is generally just more humble, but he still does hold some of that unrivaled intelligence in his eyes, even as a child drags him around like his personal best friend. </p><p>Elijah sends a long-suffering look at Gavin's way, silently begging him to say no. Gavin grins.</p><p>“Sure, kiddo,” he says smugly. “But don’t get your pants too wet, or else your legs will be cold all night.”</p><p>Fletcher shouts with elation, dragging Kamski behind him and into the snow-laden front yard. His small foot gets close to Gavin’s beer, but he swiftly grabs the neck of the bottle and pulls it away before it can tumble. </p><p>Elijah’s glare is withering, and Connor can’t help but snicker at the righteous look on Gavin’s face. He’s never seen them interact like brothers, and it’s uncannily natural now that he has. Boys will be boys, he guesses, if given the chance. </p><p>Eventually, halfway across the yard, Fletcher releases his grip on Elijah’s hand and runs a ways away, kicking up waves of snow on his path. Elijah stands still in the cold air, and it’s only Connor’s programs that let him read his lips: Your kid is a menace.</p><p>There’s a snicker from beside him, and Elijah’s lip twists upwards, though is dashed away when Fletcher throws a snowball at his back. He makes an affronted face at his nice sweater getting wet, but has no time to react as another one hits his arm and sprays snow all over.</p><p>Gavin’s bite of his lasagna is very satisfied, Connor finds. And he has to admit, watching Kamski get pelted with tiny snowballs is very entertaining -- and even more so when he finally caves in and starts aiming a few of his own. </p><p>It would be a more even match if Kamski could throw well, but it’s clearly slanted towards Fletcher until one of Elijah’s snowballs hits true. And hard. In Fletcher’s face. The boy topples backwards and into the snow, eerily quiet. </p><p>Gavin sets his plate aside and makes a quick move to assist him, and Connor can see the way his heart beat increases as it looks like Fletcher might start crying. However, a peal of squealing laughter erupts from under the small pile of snow on Fletcher’s face, and Connor watches as the adults immediately relax, Elijah in particular looking quite sheepish. </p><p>Leaning back down to sit, Gavin sighs in relief as Elijah bids his adieu to his nephew and makes his way to the porch once more. As he passes, though, Elijah sets a hand on Gavin’s shoulder and says lightheartedly, “He reminds me of you when we were younger.”</p><p>Gavin snorts. “Yeah, in that he’s a total kickass kid?”</p><p>There is a small shout of <em> language! </em> from the form in the snow, but it’s disregarded as Elijah rolls his eyes and steps back into the house, his sweater smattered with water in blotchy patches. Fletcher recovers fast, and begins entertaining himself by rolling tiny snowmen to line the pathway, like little soldiers awaiting their royalty. </p><p>Gavin sighs affectionately, staring at his son. He says, “Con and I are gonna head back inside, okay? Come inside soon to warm up.”</p><p>Fletcher barely looks up from his current snowball-man to acknowledge him, but Gavin seems trusting of him to listen and come inside in a few minutes. Pushing himself to his feet with a groan, Gavin rolls his shoulders with his cleared plate and empty beer in hand, and holds out a hand for Connor to grab.</p><p>Connor does, and streams of heat race up his arm. Gavin looks so happy as he is, and he finds it interesting to know that Gavin <em> can </em> settle down a little, maybe tone down his abrasiveness with some time. </p><p>They step inside, into the bustle and hum of the Reed family, and it’s not long until things start to go awry. </p><p>Gavin puts his plate in the sink where around a dozen similarly messy dishes have been piled, and they make their way to a more secluded area of the house, away from the poker game that’s been set up at the kitchen table. They lean together on the wall just outside of a doorway to a different room, observing lazily.</p><p>Someone behind them coughs loudly, but when Connor turns he sees no one but the backs of a few people across the room. Peculiar.</p><p>When he turns again, though, Gavin’s face is flushed a brilliant red, and not just from the outside’s chill. He hesitantly points upwards, and Connor’s eyes follow the trail his finger sets up and-- oh. </p><p>There’s mistletoe hanging above them. It hadn’t been there earlier, he definitely would have noticed. Had it been put up while they were standing here? Surely, he would have at least noticed that?</p><p>Wait, wait. <em> Mistletoe? </em></p><p>Gavin’s already got a look on his face, and Connor immediately knows his intentions -- and the thing is, he doesn’t do anything to stop it. In fact, at the thought of it, a thrill shoots through him, and he almost freezes up and Gavin pockets his phone and brings one of his hands to cup Connor’s jaw.</p><p>A million fireworks ignite on Connor’s sensors at the feeling of Gavin’s hand on his face, and it doubles, no, quadruples in intensity as the other joins on the other side. Thumbs ghost over his cheeks, ever so light and reverent, and his head is pulled down slightly, to meet Gavin’s height.</p><p>And then -- their lips are pressing together. They’re-- they’re kissing. Connor exhales sharply as his eyes flutter shut, feeling it right to tilt his head somewhat to allow for better access. Gavin takes that as a go ahead, and Connor finds himself on the receiving end of Gavin’s enthusiastic kissing, where a hand trails to the back of his head and one to his shoulder.</p><p>Connor grabs Gavin’s biceps and kisses back, against all of his warnings in place and all of his better judgement. </p><p>The flare isn’t localized now -- it bursts from every pore of Connor’s being, eons and trillions of supernovas exploding like fantastic firework displays, like stars exploding so bright to drown out the inky fabric that holds them together until there’s nothing but light.</p><p>Like doors opening on themselves with Gavin behind every one, greeting him with his green eyes and clever smirk that set him alight. Gavin doesn’t want to love him, because he already <em> does </em> . Every single reality with the long stares and the sparkling touches and the impossibly green eyes -- Gavin has loved him, and <em> does </em>love him, even with his corrosive words and caustic attitude, Gavin has always and will forever love him.</p><p>And Connor might Connor might Connor might Connor might Connor might Connor might Connor might Connor might Connor might</p><p>waitwaitmight Connor might Connor might Connorwait might stopConnor might Connor might Connor</p><p>might Connorwait might</p><p>Connorstop might Connor might</p><p>pleaseConnor might I’m soConnormight closeConnor might Connor might--</p><p>He doesn’t feel the way he collapses onto the floor, he doesn’t hear the way Gavin shouts for Elijah or the way that his internal fans overclock and his breathing wheezes out. The only thing he can register is his looping thoughts, impossibly large in what feels like such a small space, it’s too much, it’s <em> too much-- </em></p><p>Only as Kamski rounds the corner, spurred on by Gavin’s frantic cries, does the reboot countdown finally hit zero, and does Connor fall through the door that seems to open up beneath him, it’s gaping maw swallowing him whole until he only knows the nothing of what’s between. </p><p>
  <em> Connormightconnormightconnormightconnormight connor might   connor      might         connor </em>
</p><p><em> might    </em>     <em> co </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>-nnor might love him, too. </p><p>I'm a huge hoe for Dad!Gavin, and I've been chomping at the bits to try my hand at it. I hope it was entertaining, seeing mild dad bod gavin with uncle elijah. it's the perfect picture of domesticity, god I love it. </p><p>Thanks for reading! See you tomorrow!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. In The Light of Day</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Scared?” Hank interrupts. “Yeah, I can tell. No offense, but you’re basically shaking in your goddamn boots and all you’re doing is talking about him."</p><p> </p><p>CW: brief, mild, and vague eye gore, a monster gets taken down pretty brutally.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Connor jerks into the next reality, head spinning. When he brings a hand to his temple to steady himself, it’s the sudden queasiness that roils through his gut that lets him know quite viciously that he’s human once more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He fights back whatever strange ailments that the previous reality translated into this one -- feeling ill, a mild headache, and the sensation that his limbs are made of jelly when they shake and tremble. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been so close, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>had!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Damn it! They’d been so close, together, and Gavin’s lips had been on his and it had felt like the universe was shining, and, and--!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The loop had sprung in, just at the precipice of wonder, and torn it all down with terrible force. He wants to ruminate, wants to come to the conclusion he so desperately needs, but he locks up when he broaches the subject with himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Surely, in a human body, there couldn’t be a loop to get stuck in? But still, when he approaches the line of thought he remembers, of millions of stars and fireworks louder and brighter than the sun, it stops. It cuts off, about maybe three seconds before the loop set in, and there’s no remnants to the rest besides the stifling loop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It must be a safeguard, he assumes, to wipe the moment of initiation in order to prevent a catastrophic system failure. But it making sense doesn’t make it any less infuriating that he had to do the hard part all over, now with the newfound trouble of being too </span>
  <em>
    <span>scared</span>
  </em>
  <span> to venture about it on his own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just sighs, and rubs his temple to chase away the ache behind his eyes, like Hank had always done. This is truly pathetic, not being able to confront his own feelings for--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His stomach clenches painfully, and his hands begin to shake again. He curls his leather-gloved hands into tight fists, feeling the authentic cow leather squeeze against itself. It’s a hand-made set of leather gloves, thick and sturdy. He knows they must have been expensive, or at least a pain to get because for some reason in this reality, he knows hand-sewing leather is extremely difficult. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels the headache return, more painful, when he sees he’s currently sitting shotgun on a horse-drawn cart. Of course, how didn’t he smell it before? Wincing, he regards his clothing with more scrutiny, and finds it somewhat odd that his shirt is covered with tough leather, and the occasional metal plate strapped over. Then there’s the matter of the sword on his waist, but everything seems so trivial to the voice that speaks up next to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jeez, you look miserable, Con.” Hank grouses. “What’s got you so damn sour?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor, embarrassingly, feels his eyes begin to sting and his chest swell up at the familiar grumbly expression. Even more embarrassingly, his efforts to stifle the sudden and rough onslaught of emotions fails miserably and he feels the moisture in his eyes crest and fall down his cheeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank’s eyes widen, taken aback, and he immediately leans in and asks, “Shit, son, what’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ‘son’ just makes it worse, so he brings a hand up to hide his elated smile and to wipe away some of the tears. It’s so contradictory, crying because of happiness, but here he is, affected by it all the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he says as evenly as possible after a few minutes to compose himself. “I’m not sure what came over me, but it's nothing bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s certain his face is still blotchy, and not in the good way like Gavin’s is when he blushes. He’s sure his skin is dappled with uneven patches of redness and that his eyes are a least a little swollen from the unfortunate display.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank doesn’t look convinced in the slightest, but something flashes in his eyes and he drop it, though still saying, “You need to talk about somethin’?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He almost says no, not wanting to saddle this Hank with anything else, but it nags at him and he can’t say it. If Connor was too scared to think about… that, maybe they could talk about it? He hopes this Hank will be at least somewhat agreeable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Actually, yes,” Connor says, staring ahead. The horse’s haunches sway as it ambles along the dry dirt path, kicking up small amounts of dust under its hooves. “I wanted a little… help with something I’m experiencing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a green tinge to Hank’s face, like the touchy-feely subject matter makes him want to crawl out of his own skin. Connor considers backpedalling, but Hank seems to shake it off and right himself, letting out a heavy sigh before saying, “Go ahead. Tell me about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor smiles with his gratitude, but it disappears once he actually begins to think about what he wants to speak about. That twisty, cold feeling that makes his hands shake begins to creep back in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have a fixation,” he rushes out, “on a specific person.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank raises a grey eyebrow. “You’re gonna have to be more specific than that, kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Connor tamps down on his frustration. “I don’t know, though. This--this person, they make me feel an odd way, and it makes me… uncertain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank rides silently for a few moments, horse’s reins held tightly in his own hand-sewn leather gloves. While Connor has the occasional metal plate strapped to him, Hank has what Connor can really only call a suit of armor, scuffed and weathered from use but still gleaming under the sun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Hank says, obviously trying to keep his voice away from monotony. “What does this person make you feel?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like the sun,” Connor says immediately, words spilling past his lips. “He makes me feel like the sun. When he---they touch me, it feels like I’ve been set alight like the fireflies in the grass, like-- I, I don’t know, like I’ve finally landed somewhere after a long journey, and he’s there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor only realizes after he’s spoken that he’s let the pronoun slip, and the way Hank’s expression shifts lets him know that he has his suspicions already. Damn it, he can’t monitor his words as well as he’d like as a human, but if the trade off is that he’ll be able to resolve this issue, then so be it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank says nothing, so Connor foolishly continues. “I feel the need to categorize everything about him, the shape of his hands, the curl of his hair-- I don’t know what it is, Hank, but I’m, I’m--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Scared?” Hank interrupts. “Yeah, I can tell. No offense, but you’re basically shaking in your goddamn boots and all you’re doing is talking about him,” he gathers the reins into one hand, and leans onto the wooden outcropping behind the seats that they lean on while sitting. “Look, I’m gonna be honest, it sounds like you might be in love, Con.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m… in love?” Connor parrots, feeling close but not quite there yet. It feels right, but there’s just something that’s not clicking quite properly. What Hank’s said is what falling in love is like sounds solid to Connor, at least in the fact that he trusts Hank’s judgement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But being in love doesn’t seem substantial enough to describe it. He and Gavin are, well, soulmates, across realities and depended on one another for existence. They share a lot, like their space, their attention… their feelings, maybe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Gavin makes Connor feel like a sun, he must make Gavin feel like one, too -- endlessly rotating around each other in perfect balance among the inky blackness that strings the stars across the sky like winking diamonds. A binary star system, like Gavin had said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a rustle from behind him, and Connor turns to view whatever that had created the noise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t aware there was a back part to the cart, but now that he looks, it seems almost like a repurposed mode of hay transportation, though his attention is quickly drawn away from the bags of supplies lining the bottom of the wood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reed begins to softly snore in the back of the cart, and Connor’s just astonished he’s managed to stay asleep on the bumpy and uneven pathway. His head twists gently with the rocking of the cart, longer hair pushing up against the leather satchel he’s decided to use as a pillow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor’s eyes rake over his skin, tracing the line of his scar and then the dip of his Cupid’s bow, where they trail to his lips. His face warms when he immediately thinks about how wonderful they had felt pressed against his, with Gavin’s hands gently caressing the back of his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Holding him like he was the world to him --  or the other sun to his binary star system. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the light of day, where the sun cradles Gavin’s jaw and soaks into his tanned skin, nicked and scarred haphazardly with the stories of a hundred fights, where his calloused hands curl gently around Connor’s fingers when he sets them in his palm, where the soft rise and fall of his chest is the breeze of the earth and the beat of his heart the thrum of life, Connor realizes he loves Gavin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He loves Gavin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no crashing of cymbals, no great upheaval of the grounds and no thunder cracking furious bolts across the sky -- it’s just the gentle realization, like a feather suspended in the air finally drifting safely to the ground, like a key sliding into place and finally making the final turn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It all clicks together. Somehow, Connor has learned to love Gavin Reed in all his ways, familiar and shockingly new, in the way he smirks, his eyes gleam, his hands hold and caress-- he’d learned to love it all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor smiles, blindingly bright. That feels right, to think he loves Gavin. He keeps his fingers in Gavin’s palm, where they’ve been gently grasped in his throes of sleep. This hand is bare, but the other has a two-fingered glove on -- also hand-stitched leather -- with a notable wearing under the last knuckle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>An archer, he thinks, and feels his insides melt. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>would </span>
  </em>
  <span>be good at that; his aim as an officer is impeccable and it would likely translate very well to bow and arrow. His eyes follow the line of his full-leather tunic, and to the other glove, tracing the stable stitching. His hand itches with the healed pinpricks of many a misaligned needle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He enjoys how freely the idea of loving Gavin rolls in his head, falling onto itself with the elated clumsiness of beach waves in the morning, tripping in their haste to greet the shore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s glad that a human reality was the key to circumventing the loops, but he suspects the loops may have been somewhat of a defense mechanism in response to his fear. At least as a human, the fear just translates to a denial state, and can be worked through with some time. And Hank's begrudging help.<br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>Resting his head on his arm that’s slung over the back to reach Gavin, Connor just thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love him. I love him. I love Gavin Reed.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin eventually mumbles something unintelligible in his sleep, and rolls over so his head is resting on a less lumpy and uncomfortable side of his satchel-turned-pillow. Connor retracts his hand and turns back to the road, unable to cease smiling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can feel Hank’s gaze on the side of his head, and he can tell he’s itching to say something. However, he doesn’t -- not for a long while until the road begins to falter and the horse begins to slow, uneasy at the change in terrain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, Hank simply says, “You should tell him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will,” Connor promises earnestly. “But I won’t wake him up to do so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank nods, trusting Connor to do so, and they both smile --  though Hank’s seems more of a ‘I knew it’ smile. Again, Connor finds himself infinitely grateful Hank is willing to help him, and also just by the fact that Hank is here in this reality. It’s been so long, and Connor is glad to have seen him once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though his heart still pangs when he thinks of Hank from the Initial, and when he will see him again, if ever. But he casts his awareness behind him, and is comforted by the fact that no matter what, he will always see the man he loves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs, a little giddy. The man he loves-- it’s a wonderful thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The horse begins to whinny anxiously, pulling and tugging at the reins with some fervor. Both Hank and Connor snap to attention and scan the trees that line the road densely, but neither of them spot anything. The horse continues to fuss and spook, though and it’s not until a baritone voice pokes in from behind them, hoarse from rest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, guys?” Gavin calls. When they turn, he sees that Gavin’s already nocked an arrow and drawn the bow, aiming it carefully behind the cart. “We got some company.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A huge, hulking beast stands eerily still maybe about twenty feet behind them, its rippling muscles shifting under jet black fur. On its head, two wicked horns, and on its face an odd pattern of white fur that almost resembles--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit,” Hank curses. “I thought skull bulls live way north of here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin scoffs, “They do! Doesn’t change the fact that this one’s here and ready to fuckin’ gore us, Hank!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carefully, Gavin aims his bow just as Hank begins to rise from his seat and slowly dismount the cart, hand slowly unsheathing his blade that he wields with enormous skill. The bull chuffs, it’s massive hooves stirring up dust. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Connor,” Gavin says, steadily. “Grab me another arrow, will you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Connor leans over the back and draws one from the quiver, Gavin doesn’t twitch or take his eyes off the bull, which stares just as seriously. Connor realizes that Gavin would have to unnock the arrow currently drawn on the bow to mount the next one which would leave an open defence, so Connor takes his time to step into the back of the cart, careful to avoid stepping on anything that might make noise, and positions the arrow next to the one already there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin wouldn’t ask for another arrow unless he’d either already fired or planned to use two, and Connor knows it’s the latter. He likely recognizes that the one wouldn’t do much, but Connor’s not sure that flinging another will be much better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The arrow nocks next to its brethren, the skull bull huffs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin releases the bowstring before the bull even begins to charge, and much to Connor’s utter surprise, the arrows land impossibly accurate -- into the eyes of the bull, almost down to the fletching. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The skull bull writhes before dropping to the ground with a thud, and Hank guffaws at the shot, saying something about Gavin being too lucky. But Connor’s not listening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He and Gavin lock eyes, and Gavin blinks placidly, just as lost in Connor’s gaze as he is Gavin’s. They’re standing impossibly close due to Connor needing to nock the arrow, and he can see Gavin’s pupils shrink and blow, the green shining.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re the second sun to my binary star system, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Connor thinks with affection running through his veins and flowers blooming from where his hand touches Gavin’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin opens his mouth to say something, but Connor’s already accepting the shakiness of the floor, the way it seems to feel less stable under his feet. Gavin sets down the bow, looking warm and soft, and yet still strong and stubborn in his never ending state of contradictions, and Connor loves that about him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as he can’t quite make out what Gavin says, he knows this --  he </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> tell him.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>HE KNOWS!!!!!! AND HE'S OKAY WITH IT!!!! RING THE ALARMS, GUYS, IT FINALLY HAPPENED. much 'holy fucking shit i love him so much' to come, so stay tuned!! now he's just gotta tell him, lay it all out. also, knight/fantasy/SWORDS au, thanks for the inspo, minnie! &lt;3</p><p>Thanks for reading! See you tomorrow! :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Confessions of a Sinner</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>There’s a collective intake of breath, a pause that seems to blanket the room, and very softly, very tenderly, they begin to sing, branching off of each other until Connor’s able to barely pick out Gavin’s full baritone amongst the threads of melody and harmony.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>His eyes immediately begin searching for Gavin, and only when he spots his face some distance away does the rest of the world begin to filter in, rendering slowly to his opticals. Gavin catches his eyes from where he stands and winks, but makes no move to approach Connor. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I love that man, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Connor thinks experimentally, and relaxes into his seat when there’s no system stutter or loop to accompany it. He itches to stand up and make his way to Gavin, but he stays in his seat in fear of disrupting whatever event is taking place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hand grasps the wooden armrest of the auditorium seating, waiting and watching as Gavin, among maybe two dozen other individuals file neatly spaced onto a set of risers, cradled from the back by looming sound shells.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sun filters heavily through wide windows placed near the ceiling like benevolent gazes, and the incandescent lighting of the sparse bulbs around the very spacious music hall is easily drowned out by the sun. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin and Connor’s eyes meet once again as he settles into place, and Connor can’t help but appreciate the way the plain suit and bowtie accent his frame -- and how he still manages to stand out of the group despite wearing the same thing as the other men on the stage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances around himself, and finds it interesting he’s the only one in the hall. It’s not a performance, then?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A reminder rings in his HUD: Dress Rehearsal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor nods to himself. This Gavin is in some sort of professional vocal group, and Connor is currently sitting in on a dress rehearsal, he thinks. From the professional dress and the absence of any pianist on stage for accompaniment, Connor would have to guess it’s some sort of chamber choir. Gavin can sing?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s never heard him sing before, not even hum, so he finds himself filling with anticipation for whatever they’re going to practice. Soon enough, a woman he assumes to be the conductor takes her place in front of the group, and all their eyes lock on to her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s all very professional -- the dress, the attitude. It’s a little odd seeing Gavin so well behaved, to be honest, which only makes him more interested. As he sits, the conductor makes some wide, circling moments with her arms, and every eye watches her aptly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a collective intake of breath, a pause that seems to blanket the room, and very softly, very tenderly, they begin to sing, branching off of each other until Connor’s able to barely pick out Gavin’s full baritone amongst the threads of melody and harmony.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor has no knowledge of music and how it functions, and for a moment he feels the itch to understand the story they’re just beginning to tell, to pick apart the layers of tone and know it. He promptly squashes the desire down, wholeheartedly believing that it would be more enjoyable to let it wash over him in rich, moving chords.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Voices overlay onto one another, sometimes in perfect spaces that make Connor’s heart sing and others more closely packed and tense that have him leaning into the sound. The low voices flow, pushing and pulling against the higher melody and harmonies, and Connor is captivated, not only by the music but also by the somewhat abstract yet still beautiful lyrics slipping past their lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watches Gavin solely as their tones begin to fold over one another, like the gentle sway of a pond lapping at his bare feet and a hand firmly in his. They open and close like doors on top of one another, and Connor can’t help but visualize Gavin being behind them all. Their individual parts give and ebb, folding into themselves and emerging more solid, more intense, until that building wave crests in a wide, complex tone that makes his ear hum and ring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin’s voice, tuned into by Connor’s programming, holds a tension point within whatever chord they hold just at the precipice, then tumbling down gracefully as the entire choir swells and sways with the grand movement of the piece.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he can see is the way Gavin’s mouth shapes the wide vowels, the way his abdomen flexes as he breathes, the way his eyes track the conductor’s vague, floating conducting with a careful, focused gaze. His voice mingles amongst the others’ with skilled precision, it’s rich tone befitting no one else but him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The choir pulls away for a moment, before branching off of one another once again. Connor leans back into his seat but his attention stays locked on Gavin, completely enraptured. Only when they settle, and the piece begins to become placid and calm, does Gavin’s eyes return Connor’s attention. The piece lands softly into the blanket of silence, and somehow it doesn’t feel like the end. It just feels like it’s returned home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His attention is only drawn away when voices begin to sing freely and aleatorically without any prompting from their conductor, overlapping in beautiful, clashing chaos. Even as Connor’s eyes are drawn away for a moment, Gavin continues to stare, warmth and affection -- and what Connor is now able to identify as </span>
  <em>
    <span>love--</span>
  </em>
  <span> all culminating in a stare that makes Connor never want him to look away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It fades away, the wonderful disorganization of clashing voices, and Connor nearly bolts to his feet to clap before realizing that as the only person watching, it would likely be inappropriate. So he just sits patiently, nearly vibrating in his seat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The conductor begins to speak to the choir, and Connor begins to feel that gnawing feel of anticipation and fear, a tinge of uncertainty paving the way. But he made a promise, to himself at least, that he would tell Gavin in some capacity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he has to be tactful about it, lest he unnerve him or scare him away. At least this Gavin seems amiable to Connor’s presence at this point in time, but that doesn’t stop him from creating scenarios in which Gavin will swiftly and cruelly put him down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, no, he tells himself. It will be fine. Gavin loves him, and he loves him back. It will be fine, but he begins to plan out the exchange anyways. He’ll approach Gavin, compliment him on the performance-- wait, it wasn’t a performance, it was a rehearsal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, he’ll compliment him on the </span>
  <em>
    <span>rehearsal,</span>
  </em>
  <span> ask him how he feels he did, tell him how good he looks in the suit-- no, that won’t work either, maybe instead of asking how he thinks he did, which can lead to negative interactions, he can ask how he is? Or maybe he can forgo the questions and just tell him he did well, and that he was the only thing Connor could see, or that the words that had spilled past his lips had captivated him, held him, and spun him around until he was dizzy--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks for coming today,” Gavin says above him. Connor’s head snaps upwards from where he’d been staring holes into the floor. “I hope we were able to live up to your expectations.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor bolts to his feet, standing ramrod straight. A million options for dialogue prompt in his mind, and it’s a little too much, chaotic but not in the beautiful way of the choir--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you,” Connor blurts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Immediately, horror and embarrassment sets in, but he forcefully keeps his face as neutral as possible as he considers the merit of bolting. But he stays rooted, and a million more apologies and backtracks form on his tongue, ready to be blurted out just as clumsily as his confession. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>An odd, indecipherable look crosses Gavin’s face, but he doesn’t look repulsed, confused, or angry. He’s just… odd. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, Gavin raises the back of his hand to eye-height, exposing the simple gold band hugging his ring finger. It sits so innocently that Connor’s systems stall. He looks down at his own hand and thumbs the identical golden band with silent awe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin snorts, “Uh, yeah, I sure hope so.” he says wryly. Wiggling his fingers, he lets the ring shine under the sunlight from the high windows, and Connor laughs delightedly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” he says. “You do really well up there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An unabashed smile lands on Gavin’s face, and his hand darts out to Connor’s waist and drags him in close until Connor has to crane his neck somewhat to keep his chin from colliding with Gavin’s face. He pulls back just a smidge in order to make the space more workable and--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>and Gavin plants his lips on his, still pulled taut with a smile. Connor kisses back happily, even as one of the other men from the choir whistles and causes everyone to laugh. Even as the floor begins to disintegrate beneath him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something feels different, though, as they kiss, but it’s not bad. It feels like the choir slowly winding down with the chaos, like the feather landing on the ground, like something finally slotting into place among infinite other somethings strewn about. It feels like something not necessarily </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong,</span>
  </em>
  <span> but definitely not </span>
  <em>
    <span>right, </span>
  </em>
  <span> has been rectified.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It feels like… home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And once the floor finally disappears, and Connor gets that disorienting sensation of slipping and falling into that brief point between realities where there’s nothing but the space between the stars, something snaps, and everything -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything --</span>
  </em>
  <span> releases a tension that Connor hadn’t known existed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes blink open to a familiar ceiling. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>choir gav B) B) B) also if you're cool with it the song kinda referenced is <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ea_9sEvp3uM">dawn by eric william barnum</a> and it's really beautiful, and i feel some of the symbolism in the song kinda (really) fits the themes of the fic, so check it out if you feel like it (also the inspo for the name of the fic wink wink)! Next chapter should be out tomorrow, but if it's not, know it's because I'm trying to make it substantial and a satisfying conclusion to the fic, and that might take a day or so. :) &lt;3</p><p>Gonna put the lyrics to the piece below, but Thank you so much for reading, and I'll see you tomorrow!! &lt;3</p><p> </p><p>  <em>From the door’s soft opening<br/>And the day’s first sigh,<br/>Filling the room,<br/>I see before me<br/>A life of doors,<br/>One opening on another,<br/>Doors upon doors,<br/>And sighs upon sighs,<br/>Rising in a tide of mornings,<br/>Rising, until that final sigh,<br/>And the last morning,<br/>And the last holy breath,<br/>Whispering “this…”</em></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Initial</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The first thing he does is check the date. The second, find Hank, and the third? Devise a plan to break down Gavin's walls and defenses so he isn't afraid to love Connor. </p><p>It might be easier said than done.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The first thing he does is check the date. He’s not sure what other evidence he needs besides his position, his location, and the current state of the Zen Garden program, but he still wants to confirm the date. He checks it twice, this time with the year and a calendar pulled up. He does a web scan for anything out of place or unusual. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, he sits up in the bed that Hank insists he uses, and thoroughly scans the room. His jacket is haphazardly strewn on the floor, jud how he’d left it, and his shoes are likely by the front door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A gentle whine precedes a scratch at the door, and Connor doesn’t think otherwise to get up and let Sumo in. The large lump of fur bounds happily into Connor’s room, and suddenly overwhelmed, Connor drops to his knees and buries his face in Sumo’s fur.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The floor beneath him has regained a sense of stability and solidity he hadn’t known it had lost, and once Sumo begins to fuss with his lack of pets, Connor uses one hand to stroke his head and the other to put on the carpet, feeling the sensation of the fibers between his fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The date is exactly fourteen hours, seven minutes, and three point four-five seconds after he had last gone offline, in that bed. He’d been attacked by the Zen Garden --  wait.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Worried, Connor searches his systems for any remaining anomalies or dangerous strips of code -- but all of that oozing menace and radioactivity that the corrupted code had been rife with is completely gone, and now just stands as a completely mundane jumble of nonsense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swiftly deletes the remaining code, feeling a crushing weight lift off his shoulders knowing that Amanda cannot exist here any longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But -- </span>
  <em>
    <span>here.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He’s… back?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sumo boofs and licks a wet trail up the side of his cheek, and though Connor is somewhat disgusted he smiles anyways and wipes his face with his sleeve. It’s still somewhat early in the morning, but he can hear Hank snoring in the other room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t realized he’d missed that sound, no matter how obnoxious. Sumo paws at the bed expectantly, but Connor doesn’t hoist him up and lay down with him -- one, Hank doesn’t like Sumo on the beds, and two, he’s too restless to relax. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sumo sits down haughtily and stares at Connor from the base of the bed, but Connor ignores his pleading eyes. Standing up, he quietly makes his way out of the room and into the hallway, where he follows the sound of Hank’s snores to the cracked doorway. The lights in the hallway are off and the door doesn’t tend to squeak, so Connor pries it open a little further and peeks inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He exhales slowly when he finally spots Hank, passed out on the bed, exactly the way Connor had left him but unconscious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rifles through his memories experimentally to see if the approximations of the other realities still remain -- and they do, just how he had put them. But now he has access to all of his memories from the Initial, or his home reality, really, and he jumps at the opportunity to sift through his memories of Gavin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re not encouraging, to say the least. He hadn’t been looking for any signs of infatuation before the switches started happening so the memories he has are painfully unhelpful --  but his memories from yesterday (Yesterday? It feels like it’s been much, much longer than that) have yet to be compressed and discarded of useless information in order to keep his systems clean, so diving into those specifically seems like the clearest course of action.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a little hard to stomach, honestly, seeing Gavin at his worst. Though he knows it’s his reality and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> be accustomed to it, having seen dozens of Gavins that were much kinder, well-rounded people makes this Gavin seem so… rough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can feel the way Gavin’s hands -- that he’s now more used to running through his hair -- push and shove at him, and how his face reddens not with the blush that makes Connor melt but with fury, acidic and hot. Genuinely, there’s only two things that stand out to him, that give him hope:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One: Gavin’s pupils widen considerably whenever he’s looking at Connor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two: His hands twitch and linger when he grabs Connor’s lapels.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It could be the sensation Gavin had described that keeps his hands lingering and adjusting like he’s experiencing something electric and intense -- and that’s all Connor needs for his resolve to harden and for his brow to set, determined. There’s signs, just a few, but what Connor had just experienced had to be real.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had to be. (Because he doesn’t know what he would do if it wasn’t.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s running a huge risk, in courting Gavin. Well-- maybe not </span>
  <em>
    <span>courting</span>
  </em>
  <span> him, per se. Perhaps just softening him up a little, making him more amiable to the idea of… loving Connor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seems so implausible with this version of Gavin. At least in most of the other realities he had some sort of jumping point, but this is daunting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he has to do it. For the both of them. Gavin deserves to be happy, not afraid of what he feels. All Connor has to do is tear down Gavin’s pre-existing beliefs and grudges about loving and androids, the ones that have… likely been instilled for most of his life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Connor could get headaches as an android, he’s sure he’d be getting one, now. But his conviction remains strong. A rustle in Hank’s room wafts to Connor’s processors, but he doesn’t note it until someone starts to yell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus!” Hank shouts, scrambling in his bed. After a moment of panic Hank lays a hand on his heaving chest, breathing, “God fuckin’ damn it, Con. Is staring at me while I sleep a new pastime or something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant even as his systems floor with recognition and joy at seeing Hank-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>Hank, when he was so afraid he was lost to Connor forever. He doesn’t want to alarm him, so all he says is, “Just checking in, Lieutenant. Feel free to go back to sleep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank shakes his head, running a hand over his face in disbelief. “I’m already awake.” he says. “Ain’t no going back to sleep after a scare like that. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jesus.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An apology is on the tip of Connor’s tongue but he fears if he speaks any more he may break down, so he shuts the door quietly to let Hank get ready. Sumo joins him on the couch as he desperately tries to keep himself under control, and the dog lays his big head on his lap, wide eyes staring pleadingly at Connor for attention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He goes to pet Sumo, but his eye is caught by a small bit of material under his fingernail -- and he realizes with a jolt that he had, in fact, backhanded Reed and cut his face in what Gavin would know as less than a day ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sinks his face into his palm. This is going to be difficult.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank emerges from the hallway and makes his way to the kitchen where he begins to start his morning routine of black coffee and nothing else.Perhaps he should introduce the one, plain slice of white bread that had wormed its way into the other Hank’s diet in the soulmate instance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The idea is squashed when he realizes there’s no bread of any type in the house, but he still does go into the kitchen to check. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You okay?” Hank says into his mug of coffee. “You’re looking pretty itchy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>God-- he wouldn’t be able to understand half of it. He casts out for what to say and eventually lands on, “Just glad you’re home. Thanks for standing up for me, yesterday,” And then, because he’s genuinely curious, he adds, “how did you get home?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank snorts, finishing his sip. “I said I could steal Reed’s car, right? Nah, I threatened him until he caved and drove me home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And he agreed?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank rolls his eyes. “I don’t know why he gets his knickers in a twist about you, but when you’re not there? God,” he levels Connor with a sardonic stare. “I might be tempted to say he’s bearable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What? Connor wasn’t aware of this. He guesses it </span>
  <em>
    <span>would</span>
  </em>
  <span> only make sense for the caustic Gavin he knows to be a product of his perception, but he finds it surprising he hasn’t gotten any second hand information about him until now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So it </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> a matter of Connor’s presence that makes him angry, and it’s not entirely his disposition. That’s good to know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t get me wrong, Con. He’s still an asshole, and the way he treats you is fuckin’ awful,” he makes a wide gesture. “Why don’t you just fucking report him for that shit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a complicated issue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s complicated.” Connor says, and Hank rolls his eyes but says nothing further. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank leaves to do whatever it is he does to squander time in the mornings before they head to work, and Connor takes the time to let Sumo out back and sit on the concrete stair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the complete wrong season, the step is a little too high -- but if he really focuses on that approximated memory of the Christmas Party, he can almost smell Gavin’s damn lasagna and can almost feel the heat his terrible sweater radiated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin was so content, then, but Gavin from here is still very stuck in a turbulent limbo with himself, and Connor cannot, in good faith, leave him to maybe eventually sort it out on his own when he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> that Gavin loves him, but that he’s just afraid to recognize it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds that he really doesn’t know all that much about his Gavin besides the constants, so he takes a few moments as Sumo trails around the fence to review some documentation, see what information he can uncover that might clue him in on what makes his Gavin tick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s all very standard, public knowledge. High school diploma, employment at the DPD. There’s nearly nothing of interest --  that is, until Connor finds some very, very old social media posts about a high school lacrosse team, and the very pixelated photo shows a cheerful Gavin hanging an arm around a very displeased Kamski.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels something relax. He’d been worried that somehow, it had maybe been a figment of his imagination and it really had been a dream. But the excited caption of the siblings Gavin and Elijah Kamski celebrating a lacrosse win against their high school rivals whisks it away. They both even have their piercings in!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He files it away, somewhat soothed. He has proof it was real, if his memory could be his own creating. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taking a deep breath, he stands as the sun begins to peek over the roof of the neighboring house and calls Sumo back inside. His paws are certainly wet with the dew, but there isn’t much exposed mud in the backyard so he doesn’t concern himself with making sure he’s dry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank’s already slipping on his shoes by the time Connor’s back inside, and he jolts when he realizes he’s not even ready yet. He makes his way to at least change his shirt, and he glances at his jacket, discarded on the floor. It’s far too rumpled and wrinkled to wear it to work, and he has no back ups.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Going jacketless for the first time in this reality is going to be odd, and he much rather would have done so on his own terms, but he </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> change his shirt, and he will at least do that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now clad in a fresh shirt and feeling very, very out of place, Connor tries to ignore how much he wants to hug Hank in favor of following him out the front door after slipping his shoes on. It’s so strange to trace such a familiar path after such a journey of uncertainty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It feels like it’s been more than a month since he’s been here, walking down the front steps of Hank’s home, sliding into the passenger’s seat and idly watching the hula girl dash ornament shake. For something so ingrained in him, it feels awfully strange now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a glance at Hank, who stares disinterested out at the road. It’s still a little early, but the sun has already begun to warm the air as it begins its journey for the day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor bites his lip when Hank finally pulls into the precinct parking garage, suddenly struck by how unprepared he feels to finally confront Gavin after such a… transformative experience. It’s not going to be easy, he tells himself, but it will be worth it -- because somehow, Connor loves him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They walk in, and Connor braces himself for something. Anything, really, but when whatever cataclysm he’s expecting never seems to come, he relaxes somewhat and sinks down into his desk, trying to refresh his memory on the case they had been working.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had become unstable yesterday, he remembers, after seeing a garden too close to Amanda’s -- but now that he’s quite literally seen the worst possible scenarios with her involved, it seems so trivial and far away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now with the Zen Garden completely gone? She’s barely a thought anymore, and it feels good to finally put that fear to rest. For good. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a tap on his shoulder, and Connor follows the arm to see Hank pointing his other hand’s thumb over towards Fowler’s office, where he sees the man himself standing darkly with a vein popping in his forehead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hunched form sits inside, leather jacket hiding most of his posture that is certainly displeased. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fowler waves him over, and with a sigh, Connor rises from his seat to meet his fate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin doesn’t even look up when Connor closes the door behind him. He just stares at the floor, his jaw jutting defiantly and very poorly hiding the scabbing on his face from where Connor had caught his skin with his nail.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to apologize, but he reminds himself that Gavin probably wouldn’t be receptive to any sort of kindness yet. They’ll have to work on it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fowler doesn’t even sit down to start talking. “Shit, Reed. How’d you get </span>
  <em>
    <span>Connor </span>
  </em>
  <span>pissed off enough to hit you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From where his gaze sits at the floor, Gavin spits, “Bot was freakin’ out at the damn crime scene, Jeff. The ‘droid’s fucking defective, he shouldn’t be--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna stop you right there, Reed.” Fowler says evenly. Finally, Gavin lifts his face and Connor is taken aback by the vitriol. Unimpressed, Fowler continues none too carefully. “I don’t ever remember asking you to police your goddamn coworkers, nor do I remember giving you permission to harass and abuse them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That being said, Connor,” Fowler turns to him, and he freezes on the spot. “People -- other than Reed, here -- have corroborated that you seemed very overwhelmed and unable to do your job. Both of you get desk duty for two weeks, Reed as punishment, and Connor as a chance to catch up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin immediately protests. “The fuck? Fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>desk duty?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fowler’s lip curls. “If you say one more damn word, Reed, you’re both sorting the physical archives in the basement instead. Right now, all you’re getting is desk duty, cold cases that you’re gonna see what you can do about then differ to an officer who treats their coworkers with respect. Capiche?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing slips past Gavin’s mouth with the exception of a very disdainful pursing of his lips. When Fowler had mentioned the archives, Connor had frowned but ultimately had been curious if the archiving reality had been an alternate future.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But, Captain--” Connor says without thinking. He’s perfectly capable of working, now, and he’d hate to spend more time incapacitated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The disappointment in Fowler’s eyes give him pause. “Really? You, too? You know what -- since we seem to have a dire fucking need for </span>
  <em>
    <span>cooperation</span>
  </em>
  <span> in this precinct, you’re working the cold cases with Reed.” he mutters, “maybe that’ll calm you two the fuck down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re fucking kidding me,” Gavin deadpans. “I barely tolerate this piece of shit on a good day, and you want us to fucking work together?” He goes to sneer, but Connor can see the way the motion pulls at his butterfly bandages and they both wince.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sitting down, Fowler shows his disinterest by diverting his gaze to his computer. “Well I’ll be damned, Reed can listen for once.” he glances at Gavin for a moment. “The desk across from yours is empty right now, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope you pack light, Connor.” he says. “Because you’re going to have a new neighbor. For the foreseeable future.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin’s face pales a few shades, before it’s quickly replaced with the maroon tinge of fury. Pushing Gavin like this cannot be good. Connor was hoping that he’d be able to gently introduce himself into Gavin’s sphere of trust, but that seems to be an outdated plan, as Fowler’s having him semi-permanently moving his work space to be Gavin’s desk neighbor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a clatter of boots against the floor and glass against glass as Gavin storms out of the room, leaving a trail of hot rage in his wake. Sighing, Connor makes his way to leave, too, but Fowler’s voice pipes in from the desk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hears him sigh, first, then say, “Sorry about him, Connor. He’s usually not this bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Connor says, and leaves it at that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That entire interaction was incredibly disheartening. He had tried to prepare himself for Reed’s vitriol, but yet it had somehow still taken him off guard. There’s almost no trace of the caring man he’s come to know, just a shell hollowed out by fear and hatred.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, Connor thinks to himself. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and Gavin Reed certainly won’t learn to love in one, either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin’s long since disappeared to whatever location he leaves in order to cool off when Connor finally begins moving his stuff over to the desk adjacent to Gavin’s. Fowler’s comment about hoping he packed light was a joke, but only now does Connor realize his personal effects are pitifully few.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though, Gavin’s desk is pretty bare, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s just setting down the little plant that Hank had got him a month ago when he hears Gavin’s distinct gait and boots begin to approach. Connor looks up to gauge the situation, but Gavin just stares and sneers at the desks for a moment, even as Connor continues to rearrange the few items he can. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At some point, as he’s expecting, there’s a sharp poke to his shoulder, and when he turns it’s re-planted onto his chest. Despite the aggressiveness of the action, Connor’s skin warms under the finger, and he can see Gavin’s hand twitch like he’s feeling it, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen here, asshole,” Gavin says slowly. “I don’t care that Fowler’s trying to buddy us up, all right? Stay out of my way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Against his better judgement, Connor does something that he may regret very shortly. Gently, he raises his hand to where Gavin’s pressing his finger into his collarbone, and sets it on top of Gavin’s hand. Gavin flinches like he’d just been shot, but Connor continues to exert a non-threatening amount of pressure to lay Gavin’s finger and hand flat on his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watches Gavin’s pupils frantically grow and shrink, his heartbeat increase, and his face flush the </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span> kind of red. Figuring Gavin would be more receptive to a small push back rather than immediately bending backwards, Connor says, “I’m afraid that in such close proximity, that may be an issue, Detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sharp intake of breath, Gavin rips his hand back and cradles it, eyes wide, as if Connor had just burnt him with his touch. Connor carefully makes himself look unfazed, but internally he’s ecstatic at the clear evidence of Gavin’s love, or potential for it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin spits a curse and flees, still cradling his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank, who had at some point stepped near in what Connor assumes fear of an altercation, says, “The fuck?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor spares him a glance, before looking back at Reed who hastily tosses the bathroom door open. “He really likes me, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank says nothing, but his stare of utter disbelief is answer enough. May that have been a little too odd for him to say? Most definitely --  but it feels good to say it out loud. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin stays away for the rest of the day, only really returning to his desk once Connor’s settled down with a dozen or so cold case files. After a while, Gavin loses himself in the monotony of looking over the cases, but Connor can see his mounting frustration is the way his ears redden and his hands clench.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, the bubble pops, and Gavin spits, “The fuck is up with these case reports? Did a fucking monkey write them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They are retired Detective Manneson’s,” Connor says. Several of the reports are hand-written, and poorly at that. Manneson had a penchant for refusing to properly utilize electronic reports and filing, evidently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re not even organized,” Gavin says. “Fucking old windbag, can’t write for shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding, Connor agrees that his unique method of filing is particularly hard to follow, and if they’re going to be rifling through his cold cases it might be best to streamline the process. “I could properly digitize them, if you’d like?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin’s hand pauses where it was previously typing, but after a moment that feels like he’s arguing with himself, Gavin continues to type without a word. Taking that as the best affirmation he’ll get, Connor begins the admittedly tedious task of translation detective Menneson’s handwriting all while internally celebrating an interaction with Gavin that didn’t turn sour. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a small step in what he hopes is the right direction. Though he’s not sure if ignoring Connor would be much better than hating him, it’s a lot easier to deal with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time he’s sent off the first digitized report to Gavin’s inbox, his detective is already neck-deep into one of the more legible cold cases Manneson had left, and Connor feels satisfaction rise when he sees that discerning, intelligent gleam in Gavin’s eye as he reads.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though he’s tempted, Connor doesn’t tap into Gavin’s monitor feed to see what he’s doing; he just waits and watches somewhat contentedly as Gavin’s expressions morph minutely, eyebrows dropping, hand tightening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At some point, Gavin’s clicks become more forceful, frantic, as he presumably swaps through the document Connor had sent him and the one he’d been looking at initially, and Connor becomes somewhat concerned as Gavin becomes more and more agitated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fucking idiot,” he hisses. “Good riddance to that asshole, the DPD didn’t need his ass missing shit like this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now incredibly curious, Connor opens his mouth to ask what he may have found, but Gavin is already rotating his screen to accommodate Connor’s position, pen pointing at key spots in Manneson’s report.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He taps in several places as he explains his point of view, but Connor is a little too busy being struck by the civility and willingness toward cooperation to catch all of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He didn’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>bother</span>
  </em>
  <span> to question his wife about anything suspicious, or his neighbors. All he did was take the easy arrest without even cross checking his cases,” he points to the second case, the one Connor had digitized, and circles the cause of death. “Look at this --  both of ‘em died around the same time, with the same type of red ice in their systems, and had all their money stolen. The idiot didn’t even think to investigate any types of dealers in the area.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about the man who was arrested in the first case? Are you implying that he was wrongfully convicted?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin shakes his head. “No, he was definitely in on it, but some of his testimony doesn’t line up.” Gavin turns the monitor to peer at the words, but they must be too illegible for him to pick out, because he groans. “It would be fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice</span>
  </em>
  <span> if I could read this shit, god damn.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could digitize that for you, as well,” Connor offers, and Gavin stops again, but this time he actually glances upwards.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not a great response. “I can do shit myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor accepts the anger placidly, glad that they at least had a moment of progress between them, when Gavin had seemed to forget who he was currently partnered with. When Gavin refuses to acknowledge him further, he sighs to himself and goes back to digitizing the reports. Even if Gavin is too proud to admit it, Connor knows he appreciated the other file being fully digital and not is Manneson’s chicken-scratch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After some finagling, and some reference points for Manneson’s handwriting, Connor sends off the next report --  but he’s already seen the connection with the previous two. He keeps quiet, knowing it wouldn’t be long until Gavin notices and that his input at the moment would be less than appreciated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nearly on cue, he hears Gavin curse out Manneson for a good few seconds before standing abruptly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is everything alright?” Connor asks out of habit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin’s eyes darken but he doesn’t become too antagonistic yet. “This bullshit’s goin’ to Fowler. We’re on desk duty, if your computer brain hasn’t quite caught up, yet, and there ain’t shit we can do about this right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deferring it to people who aren’t on desk duty is awfully uncharacteristic for Gavin --  from what Connor could gather Gavin would jump at the opportunity for something interesting while they’re off the field. “Why not wait some time and see what we can dig up--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin’s hand none-too-softly slams on his desk as he leans forward. The distance makes it possible to pick out his uncertainty and fear as he says, “I don’t know why you think I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to work with you, asshole.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You seemed more than receptive to the idea when you were explaining the cases to me,” Connor says, like a fool. The effect of his words is instantaneous, and Connor laments his lack of foresight. The hand on his desk clenches, his heart rate increases though not in a good way, and he looks ready to start a physical altercation once more, causing Connor’s defense programs to stir to life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their eyes meet for a fleeting moment, and suddenly all that tension in Gavin’s hunched, furious form drops a notch, and the redness of his ears starts to fade. Connor doesn’t have time to process what such a simple interaction such as </span>
  <em>
    <span>eye contact</span>
  </em>
  <span> did to soothe Gavin before the detective is turning stiffly on his heel and to Fowler’s glass office.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s odd. He knows that, at least in his experience, eye contact between them is a good point for connection, but he’d never seen it blatantly douse Gavin’s fiery attitude like that. Perhaps it’s a product of Gavin’s feelings mixing with his conflicting stance that causes the better emotions to win out? It seems likely that he hasn’t seen it yet because he either hasn’t been looking for it, or he’s never really made direct eye contact with Gavin before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he’ll take whatever help he can get. If staring Gavin Reed in the eyes is what can aid him in helping Gavin to not fear his own feelings, then so be it. He can definitely work with that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin emerges from the office looking a little less angry, but a little more exasperated. Not a word is uttered to Connor, which is fine, because he can already deduce at least what had conspired on the most basic level. Fowler had likely told them to keep the cases for the time being.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did he pass the cases on?” Connor asks, because he won’t get a confirmation unless he verbally expresses a desire for one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin sets the tablet he’d brought in to Fowler’s office down on his desk and juts his jaw. “Says we should look into it more,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“While on desk duty? On a series of cases more than half a decade old?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Glad to know you can fucking pick up context clues,” Gavin spits before closing his eyes. It seems as if he makes an effort to calm himself, or maybe he’s taking a moment to gather some semblance of strength in a frustrating circumstance? Either way, he cools off, and continues more carefully, “We got numbers, and we got phones. We’re just gonna try and get more bullshit on Manneson’s cases before we can pass them on.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, Gavin looks very tired, eyes half lidded as he pinches the bridge of his nose. After so long of being high-strung all day at Connor’s presence, it must finally be taking a toll on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor wishes that his presence didn’t stress Gavin out, but it’s just another roadblock he’ll have to circumnavigate. For now, he’ll try and catch a fleeting second of eye contact with Gavin, to try and take advantage of whatever soothing effect it had earlier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next few days go by incredibly slow, and not much progress is made on the case or Gavin. He knows all it takes is some time and patience -- he’s seen it before in those other realities. But knowing that doesn’t make it less difficult to brush off Gavin’s insults and ignore his aggressions, but he does try to be kind in response to all of it, which seems to throw Gavin off his rhythm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seems that Gavin expects him to lash back at him like he had in the Garden. That incident had been a complete outlier, and he certainly isn’t going to attack Gavin now that he’s fallen in love with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though Gavin does make the prospect of hitting him upside the head very appealing sometimes, like when he’d been purposely chewing his gum a little too loud, or crowding his legs under the desks into Connor’s space. In response to that, Connor had set his foot atop Gavin’s boot, and he’d retreated fairly quickly, flustered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows the both of them are growing frustrated. They hadn’t found any extra information about the case -- and it was incredibly difficult to get due to the age of the case. Most leads had dried up ages ago. Of course, however, Gavin finally lands on something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, shit--” he says, leaning forward in his seat after a few minutes of teasing the cap of his pen to his lip. Connor, who had been searching diligently for the past hour for any still in-use numbers connected to any witnesses, perks up at Gavin’s excitement. Clicks and keyboard keys tap as Gavin rifles through the files, finally landing on something that makes him smirk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The powdered rubber glove residue at the scene is only from a very specific type of medical glove,” he says triumphantly. “They’re only sold in bulk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor considers this, then proposes, “There are several hospitals on and near Detroit that could order them, and that doesn’t account for time frame.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin weighs that for a moment, then begins to type again. It’s silent for several minutes --  so long, that Connor thinks Gavin is deliberately ignoring him again, but eventually Gavin smiles and turns his monitor around once more. “Only hospital buying them from Detroit is the one up north, and it was only around the time of the case. They switched to a cheaper brand the next year.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How did you get these purchase reports?” Connor asks. That doesn’t seem like something they would have on hand in any situation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin shrugs, but his eyes harden when he seems to catch on to Connor’s line of thought. “Had a hunch the first day,” he says plainly. “I know a guy who works there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While that is extremely dubious, Connor trusts Gavin’s judgement and character to merely skirt the line, not cross it. Besides, if it gets them any farther on the case and Gavin a little more amiable, who is he to complain?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Smart thinking,” Connor says, reveling in the way the praise makes Gavin flush for a fleeting moment. The Gavin he knows he can be is in there, somewhere. “What do you propose we do next?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We?” Gavin says, and Connor’s heart sinks. “I’m taking this shit to Fowler.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Gavin takes his tablet to Fowler’s office, Connor bites his lip, frustrated. It’s inane, switching between friendly and hostile like this. It makes it difficult to adapt and change his responses accordingly to try and break Gavin’s shell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The worst part is that in the brief times where Gavin </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> somewhat kind, Connor can see the Gavin that isn’t afraid of his feelings for Connor, the one who shows him his tattoos and runs his fingers through his hair, and Connor feels all the more distant from him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a movement from inside the office, and Connor snaps his attention to it just in time to watch Fowler dismiss Gavin with a simple wave of his hand. He can see the way Gavin begins to fume but curbs it just enough to slip outside before cursing very loudly. Fowler, despite definitely being able to hear it, doesn’t look up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor would be frustrated, too -- if that didn’t mean they would be working together for longer. So, he feels bad for Gavin but rejoices in the new opportunity for interaction. And right now, all it seems that Gavin wants from Connor is someone to vent to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck!” Gavin seethes. He sits roughly into his chair and looks around for a moment as if searching for something to throw, but thankfully he never actually does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inquiring could backfire, but it seems Gavin needs an outlet, so he asks, “What did he say?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The fuck do you think he said?” Gavin spits, but the fire is more general and not aimed at him. “Told us to keep fuckin’ working on it! The fuck are we supposed to do from our goddamn desks?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though Gavin laments, Connor preens at the use of ‘we’ in his complaints. They are in a predicament. The both of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin continues, fists clenching tightly on his lap. “We can’t fucking solve the case from our desks!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not?” Connor blurts. “It’s not like we could really go on the field with a case this old. We got this far, why not just… solve it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin looks at him like he’s grown a second head. Though uncomfortable, it’s preferable to scorn, and Connor lets Gavin process the information. They’re more than capable of solving this case while glued to their seats. Like Gavin said -- they have phones, they got numbers. Plus, Gavin’s got the person he knows at the hospital who seems more than willing to help them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, Gavin’s expression of bewilderment morphs into one of quiet agreement, a gentle nod to his head. “You take contacts, I’ll take information.” he says, and Connor smiles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t happen fully, but there’s a hint of a smile at the corner of Gavin’s lips, too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That night, Connor’s sitting at the table with Hank and his dinner when Hank says, “What makes you think Gavin </span>
  <em>
    <span>likes</span>
  </em>
  <span> you, Con?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, that. It had been an offhand comment, but leave it to Hank to worry. “He puts on a tough front,” Connor says, setting his hands on the table and clasping them. “But he’s just afraid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That doesn’t matter,” Hank argues, his fork tapping against the place mat as he sets it down. “He’s a dick to you. Dangerous, even.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He doesn’t want to be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank bristles, and Connor, though miffed, is touched by the concern for his well being. He really, really missed Hank. “It doesn’t matter what the fuck he wants. He’s dangerous, and you shouldn’t play with goddamn fire.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said he’s only like that around me the other day,” he counters. “He’s not nearly as dangerous as you think him to be -- you’ve seen what he’s like normally.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a deep breath, Hank closes his eyes and centers himself. “That doesn’t mean he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span>, or that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>likes you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Connor. You play with fire, you’re going to get burned --  and Reed’s a fucking inferno on good days. Around you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank doesn’t finish his statement, his point being made clearly enough. Connor agrees with him on his assessment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin’s an inferno normally, and around Connor he’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>sun. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Through everything, Connor at least has learned that Gavin is a raging, contradictory, infuriating star that drowns out the fabric the universe is sewn into. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Telling that to Hank would probably land him in a CyberLife repair facility, however, so he simply tells Hank, “That’s why I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right about then, Hank looks ready to combust into his own flare, but a few more practiced breaths later the heat dies down. Connor understands the risk, the chance that nothing may come of his efforts. But he has to try.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The conversation ends there, carefully amputated in an effort to cull the tension, but Connor can see the way that stiffness lines Hank’s stature and he can’t help but scramble for a justification. Like telling Hank, the one person who’s expressing interest in his happiness and least likely to believe him, will legitimize his entire endeavor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His pupils dilate when he sees me,” Connor says as Hank stands to bring his plate to the sink. He freezes, facing away, and Connor regrets not being able to see his face to gauge his thoughts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His heart rate increases,” he continues carefully. “And even when he’s pushing me away, his touch lingers and he flushes --  but not in the way he does when he’s angry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watches Hank’s head dip downward, but his expression is still inscrutable. Swallowing despite it having no real purpose as an android, Connor carefully meters his breaths in anticipation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just as the disappointment begins to sink in, Hank’s voice drifts, “You’ve really thought about this, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No words slip out of his mouth despite the fact he opens it. He doesn’t know what to say. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>has, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but it’s much, much more than simple thought. It’s experience, it’s laughing and crying and shaking with fear and anger alongside every Gavin in the universe. Rotating around one another, just barely keeping the other in orbit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, Hank turns to face Connor, and he feels something lift away when he sees Hank’s wry little smile. His eyes roam over Connor’s face for a moment, and it must be telling as he nods with some semblance of understanding. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you think Gavin actually feels that way, then I’m not going to stop you,” he says. “You’re smart -- young as shit, but still smart.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor nods, relief saturating his systems like a wet cloth. With his plate in hand, Hank walks to the sink and sets it in, rinsing it off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t need Hank’s approval in his efforts, but with it he feels like he’s not alone with his beliefs, like he has an anchor now. Hank won’t help, likely won’t even intervene, but having him know and potentially understand means more to Connor than he initially realized. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In his systems, he absently filters through his approximated memories of the other Gavins, and he’s bolstered. It seems a little less daunting than it had started to become.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank chimes in from the sink. “If he hurts you, though, I fully expect you to kick his ass.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Laughing, Connor smiles, saying, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They filter through dozens upon dozens of contacts that Connor’s scrounged together the second half of that week, methodically calling and questioning what they could, but they come up with nothing tangible. They contact several of the long-time staff there, but still to no avail. Many of them hadn’t even worked when the hospital still used that specific brand of gloves, so finding anyone who could at least point them in the right direction seems more and more unlikely as the hours tick by. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the past few calls, Connor’s been tapping into Gavin’s phone calls to try and get a second pair of ears on the contacts, but he doesn’t pick up anything that Gavin doesn’t. It’s all ‘I didn’t work here, then,’ or ‘I wasn’t in that department,’ and nothing of actual substance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next contact is a well-respected surgeon, and when the phone picks up to a secretary Connor almost disconnects from the call out of frustration.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good afternoon, how may I help you?” the woman asks cheerfully, and Connor prepares himself for another call of disappointment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin seems frustrated by the secretary, too, but he miraculously keeps his voice polite. “Good morning, ma’am. This is Detective Reed from the Detroit Police department. We were hoping to ask Doctor Langston some questions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, honey,” she says. “He’s in a surgery right now for the next few hours, but if there’s anything I could do to help please let me know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s clear that Gavin plans on just hanging up and trying the next contact, but he stops with his mouth half open, before saying, “How long have you worked there, ma’am?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She giggles, though the heartiness of it may disqualify it as a giggle and more as a chortle. “Twenty years!” she says, “and let me tell you, I’ve seen some things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin perks up at her tenure there, as does Connor. They hadn’t encountered anyone who’d worked there for that long, yet, and this is a shining opportunity. Gavin’s eyes glance towards Connor, likely suspicious of his reaction to a call he shouldn’t be able to hear, but he dismisses it in favor of questioning the secretary. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you recall a certain type of powdered glove being used at the hospital about six years ago?” Gavin asks. “They were only used for a short time, and they were bought in bulk--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, those darn things!” she says, and Gavin leans forward over his desk to listen more carefully. “We stopped using powdered gloves after that, we barely used a fifth of the order. That powder was </span>
  <em>
    <span>everywhere</span>
  </em>
  <span> for a few weeks. It’s like they had just dumped flour into the boxes -- if you touched anything dark with them, you’d leave a handprint! Dreadful,” she laughs. “But that was so long ago! If you don’t mind me asking, why do you need to know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s against protocol to spill aspects about their case, but it’s not really even an open case, or </span>
  <em>
    <span>theirs,</span>
  </em>
  <span> so he understands that Gavin gives her a general idea. “Those specific powdered gloves were used in two murders about six years ago, and they only could have come from the hospital. Do you know any doctors that may have taken the extra gloves that weren’t used?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The receptionist snorts. “No doctor worth their salt would ever use those gloves, even for a murder. They left handprints, for goodness’s sake! The interns were pissed because they thought someone had brought in powdered donuts or something and didn’t offer them any. No, we threw them all out once the new order had come in, and they were never heard from again. ” Connor can hear her dry smile. “Until now, at least. I hope that’s helpful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s helpful beyond belief, ma’am,” Gavin says, his gratitude palpable. “That’s all we need, actually, so please don’t try and fit us into Doctor Langston’s schedule. Thank you again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hangs up after a few more exchanged platitudes, then levels Connor with a sharp, unimpressed stare. “You know, if you wanted to know what was being said, you could have just asked me to put it on fucking speaker. How long have you been on my phone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only the last four calls,” Connor replies, surprised by Gavin’s astuteness once more. “But what was the likelihood you actually would have heeded my request, Detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin flushes, and Connor disconnects from his phone as he’s sure Gavin would appreciate it. Connor’s obvious breach of privacy isn’t what concerns him, though; the receptionist had some very valuable, and some very interesting information. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She said they threw out all of the gloves,” Connor says, “and that no doctor with experience with them would use them, because they left handprints.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>which is evidence,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he doesn’t say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin agrees, unwinding from his offense moments ago, his animosity discarded for the case. “Yeah. So it wasn’t a doctor taking them, but I have my bets that it was still someone working at the hospital.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How the fuck would you know those shitty gloves existed if you didn’t work there?” Gavin says, throwing out his hands. “She’s been a receptionist for twenty years and she knew about it, but it’s likely the powder about the gloves didn’t make it much further down since the interns thought it was from somewhere else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Connor says, excited at the prospect of glimpsing Gavin’s dogged intelligence for a moment. “What do you think?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin blinks at him, seemingly shocked that Connor wants his input, but it’s covered by the rough exterior he’s used to fairly quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” he starts. “We’re looking for either a dealer or a cooker, since both the victims had the same batch of red ice in their systems. But,” he tilts his head to the side, jaw jutting in thought. “They’re probably a cook, since dealers get jumbles of stuff, usually. So we’re looking for someone with the equipment to cook it, who works at the hospital, but isn’t a doctor or nurse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Furrowing his brows, Connor sifts through reports around the time of the gloves’ disposal, and stumbles across something strange. “Look at this,” he says, and pings Gavin’s phone with a link. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking closely, Gavin reads the report and nods. “Old equipment and droids scheduled for recycling go missing around the same time as the gloves getting thrown away,” he says. “Nice find.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After he says it though, he pales, glances upward at Connor, and takes an unsteady moment to stabilize himself. It hurts to watch Gavin punish himself like that -- but broaching the subject in the middle of an investigative conversation would likely do more harm than good. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After Gavin’s face regains its healthy color, he continues his train of thought but carefully avoids Connor’s eyes. “All this shit’s coming from the trash -- the cooking equipment, the thirium from the droids, and the gloves. The person we’re looking for works at the hospital.” Gavin lays out the path for Connor, and though he would find it patronizing if it were anyone else, he knows Gavin does it to include him in his thought process.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Janitorial staff,” he breathes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bingo,” Gavin whistles with a smirk. “We’re looking for a shady-ass janitor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even though it’ll make Gavin squirm, Connor says, “Great work, Detective,” with a bright smile that Gavins from other realities tended to like quite a bit. Gavin blushes up to his ears, but sneers to try and offset the involuntary reaction. It’s very endearing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t celebrate yet, asshole. We still gotta find this guy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” Connor replies, “Do you think you could get employment records from the hospital?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin winces, but he says, “Yeah, probably.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe twenty minutes later, after Gavin keeps typing furiously, a large file is sent to him --  all the employment records of the hospital starting in 1980. Connor just shakes his head, flabbergasted at Gavin’s uncanny ability to get his hands on information he probably shouldn’t have. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sifting through it would be incredibly unmanageable for a human, so Connor gladly takes the responsibility to quickly sort through all the digital information and parse out anything useful. It takes a few minutes due to the sheer size, but it’s hours faster than it would take a human. There’s a couple qualifiers, but there’s only one that stands out for being a janitor and being in charge of trash in the hospital. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ethel Roberts, now 46 years old, retired six years ago despite living off of a janitor’s wage and fighting potential unemployment due to android automation. Retiring early in that kind of environment is extremely unlikely, and a brief check at her records reveals that she’d lived in a shabby apartment for years until her sudden retirement, where she had moved to a considerably more expensive apartment complex. On a retirement fund? Unlikely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pings Gavin wordlessly, and attaches the brief section of the file. As Gavin reads it, Connor watches him nod minutely, eyes tracing over every word with clarity fit for a camera. Gavin mouths the word, </span>
  <em>
    <span>bingo, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and stands up immediately. Connor is flattered that Gavin trusts his judgement enough to believe it that soon, but he can’t help but be disappointed that Gavin’s first response is to bring it to Fowler to get them off the cold cases together than even take a moment to celebrate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin walks up to the door, tablet in hand, and knocks on the glass chest puffed proudly to show Fowler they’d solved cold cases from their desks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fowler doesn’t move to let him in, he just keeps typing at his computer. Gavin knocks again, likely knowing Fowler would chew him out if he entered without being prompted to, but when Fowler still makes no move to acknowledge him, he knocks especially hard and obnoxiously to get his attention. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a hand disappearing under his desk, Fowler presses a small button and the glass tints black, blocking Gavin’s view to the inside. In the black glass, Connor can watch Gavin’s face morph from surprised to outraged in less than a second, shoulders bunching as he whips around and stomps down the stairs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His jacket, which had been draped over his chair three hours into calls, is roughly pulled off and slipped on. Gavin’s entire demeanor screams </span>
  <em>
    <span>dangerous,</span>
  </em>
  <span> but Connor genuinely has no idea on what’s running through his head -- though it seems like he’s had enough of whatever Fowler’s been giving him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gavin -- where are you going?” Connor says, mindless of the first name slip, even as Gavin screeches to a stop in his tracks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns on his heels and faces Connor, snarling, “I don’t give a shit if you come with or not, but this bitch is getting arrested, all right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor doesn’t bother to inform him that they don’t have a warrant for arrest, knowing fully well that Gavin will likely find a way to arrest her anyway. There’s no chance he can steer Gavin away from breaking their desk duty, so as Gavin turns back to the turnstile to the lobby, Connor bolts to his feet and anxiously follows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin doesn’t look back, but Connor can tell he knows he’s being accompanied by the way he slows his steps to let Connor catch up. It’s a wonder that Gavin’s letting him come with, but it’s likely his feelings overriding his sense, and Connor’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They skulk to Gavin’s personal vehicle --  one he’s seen before, inside and out -- and before Connor can really even register it, they’re down a highway and well on their way to Ethel Robert’s apartment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor figures that they’re going to start with a questioning, as if she were a witness or could know something important, and wait for her to slip up with something incriminating enough to arrest her for. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The entire drive, Gavin’s agitatedly tapping his fingers on the steering wheel and glancing over at Connor, as if to gauge his feelings for being here. It’s a useless endeavor; Connor keeps his expression carefully schooled the entire time, not wanting to give Gavin anything to become more agitated about. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They pull up the complex, and Connor’s theory about having Red Ice to supplement her income seems more plausible. The area is very, very nice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin, oddly enough, lets Connor go first to her door, where he knocks politely. They share a glance when there’s a shuffling inside, but no reply. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin reaches in front of him and knocks a little louder, this time supplementing it with a, “DPD, please open up!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More rustling, but no verbal reply. He feels his stress tick upwards slowly as he gets a heavy feeling in his gut, and he instinctively pushes Gavin behind him a little more. The rustling stops all of the sudden, and the space behind the door falls silent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if part of a horror movie, the door’s handle turns and it squeals open, slowly. With his foot, Connor nudges it open farther, keeping Gavin safely behind him. He can take more hits than a human. Bullets, too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door opens fully, to an empty room, and Connor barely needs to scan to see the numerous and thick traces of dried thirium on near every surface that can be reached. He steps in a little more, shocked and disturbed by the sheer spread and amount of thirium that had been dried or cleaned poorly off of the pristine wooden flooring. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Too absorbed in the thirium everywhere, too absorbed in cataloguing it for evidence, Connor doesn’t see the vase headed straight for his head from a figure jumping out from behind the door. It connects with a deafening crash, and Connor barely hears Gavin’s shout of surprise and jump to action as he falls to the floor, clutching his head and his scrambled processors. Everything fuzzes in and out for a few terrifying moments, and Connor fears for a moment he may fall unconscious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s the telltale sound of handcuffs, and then there’s hands on his face, pushing back his hair, and Gavin muttering things he can’t quite parse out. Where Gavin touches, his skin alights with that nova of shine and slowly, the fuzz ebbs away to reveal just Gavin, hovering worriedly over Connor’s injury. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue drips into his eye, and he figures a piece of vase must have cut him at the scalp. By what design, he’s not sure, but androids tend to bleed more on their scalp, just as humans do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit, Con,” Gavin says breathlessly. Connor rejoices in the pet name. If all it takes is a wound to ease Gavin up a little, why didn’t he try it sooner. “Are you okay? Concussed? C’mon, say something here,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor doesn’t say anything, too ecstatic at the first, true shine of Gavin underneath all the walls and rust he’s built up. Almost absentmindedly, Connor smiles at Gavin’s open expression and his hands trail up the zipper of his jacket, until they both rest gently at Gavin’s jaw, his pulse point beating a frenzied rhythm against his pinkies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lips parted, Gavin breathes heavy breaths as Connor continues to hold his jaw. A million emotions flitter across his face, his eyes shining a million different hues as they war ceaselessly with each other. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor doesn’t move, just keep the gentle contact for Gavin’s weighing and estimation. He has to come to the conclusion on his own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It breaks in an instant. Gavin yanks away, eyes wide and breathing labored as the fear takes over again. Connor curses internally, and Gavin scrambles to regain his composure, springing to his feet and taking a few, shaky steps back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gavin--” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gavin </span>
  </em>
  <span>me, prick!” he spits. “The fuck do you thing you’re doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor’s heart squeezes at the hostility. It had been going so </span>
  <em>
    <span>well, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Gavin had been doing so well--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The muscles on Gavin’s jaw flex with the crushing clench he holds. Words hiss past his teeth. “What kind of goddamn </span>
  <em>
    <span>game</span>
  </em>
  <span> do you think you’re playing?” he asks. “What game!?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor pushes himself to his feet, wiping thirium out of his eye. “I’m not playing a game, Gavin--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Would you shut the fuck up?!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” He snarls desperately. Panting, Gavin’s head turns to the floor as he searches for something he likely won’t find. “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why what? I don’t--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin barely stifles an anguished cry as he glances upwards. “Why are you fucking messing with me? What sick sort of sick satisfaction do you get out of fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>toying </span>
  </em>
  <span>with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets it fall silent for a moment, to try and decrease some of the explosive tension. “Is that what you think I’m doing?” he asks. “You think I’m toying with you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a scoff, Gavin shoves the heels of his palms into his eyes as if it can hold back whatever onslaught of emotions he’s feeling. This must be his version of the loops, Connor thinks. Unable to come to the conclusion by himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course you are,” Gavin chokes, “It’s all you’ll ever fucking do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something heavy sinks into Connor’s chassis. “I’m not, Gavin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His detective visibly cringes and winces at the use of his first name, and Connor can almost feel the conflict of the euphoria of the name versus the vitriol of his beliefs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re lying,” Gavin says pitifully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Claiming he’s not won’t do anything, not if Gavin’s denial persists like this. Instead, he answers with another question. “What are you afraid of?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, Gavin looks above his hands, eyes wide. It quickly curdles to rage, and he takes a few large strides to face Connor face-to-face, and in an instant Gavin’s hands are fisted terribly in his jacket. Deja vu, he thinks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit</span>
  </em>
  <span> about me, plastic,” he sneers, but there’s a clear undercurrent of pain underneath it, and Connor can’t let the opportunity pass by, not that Gavin’s so close. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor simply sets his hands over Gavin’s which go lax and pull away under Connor’s touch. “I know a lot about you, Gavin,” he says gently, recalling what that one Gavin had told him, about calling him names. “I know that when you touch me, it feels like it sets your skin on fire, like you’re going to explode, and that when I say your name you get a rush like no other.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin stays steely, though he visibly sways forward with Connor’s words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor leans forward a millimeter, too, watching the green in Gavin’s eyes turn into a supernova of twinkling. “I know that you’re afraid of what you feel for me, but, Gavin, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you don’t have to be.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Because I already love you, he doesn’t say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a jolt, Gavin’s fists fling themselves to Connor’s jacket once more, and he accepts the fact that he had miscalculated long before anything actually happens. But-- nothing happens. Hot breaths escape Gavin’s lungs rapidly as he freezes with his hands in Connor’s jacket, and Connor knows he’s on the precipice of it all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be afraid,” Connor murmurs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sharp tug downwards, and surge upwards, and Gavin’s lips connect explosively to his, heated and rough. He tilts his head to accommodate the angle he knows Gavin prefers, and kisses back enthusiastically, as if to say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re home.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It feels right, somehow more so than the other Gavins he’d kissed. For this moment of supernovas and binary star systems and all the doors and doors upon doors, everything feels absolutely as it should be, with Gavin right here with him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>His </span>
  </em>
  <span>Gavin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows that Gavin is experiencing exactly what he had the first time they’d kissed, at the Christmas party when Connor was the one who wildly vacillated and Gavin was the solid boon in the sky. Bringing his hands upwards, he gently clasps Gavin’s upper arms as they kiss to ground him, keep him in place, like he’ll float away, or Connor will slip through the floor once more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The floor stays solid, and so does Gavin’s body against him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin pulls back with a gasp, but he doesn’t leave Connor’s front, doesn’t rip himself out of his grasp, he just stares in awe and uncertainty directly. Connor smiles, and incredibly, Gavin does, too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Watching Gavin’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, Gavin’s eyes dart to the woman who had his Connor over the head with a vase. Lips pressed together, Gavin says shakily, “We should bring her in,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Connor says, before gently guiding Gavin’s face back to him. A peck on the lips, a whisper of </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t be afraid, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he continues, “Fowler’s going to tear us a new one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin barks out a laugh, and leans into Connor’s taller frame, though it’s likely subconscious. Connor still gently drapes an arm around Gavin’s side, absolutely euphoric that things may finally work out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ethel Roberts pulls and tugs on her handcuffs which have been cuffed around a support beam, hissing and spitting. Sighing, Connor begins the process of transporting her to the precinct. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>---</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fowler tears them a new one. Several new ones, in fact. His anger is so explosive that Hank, who had earbuds in with his metal bands playing, looks up from his work in surprise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He and Gavin stand side by side in Fowler’s office -- suspiciously close, undoubtedly -- as Fowler threatens to suspend them, to make them sort through the records room, to stick them on desk duty for the rest of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>year, </span>
  </em>
  <span>even dropping warnings that their disciplinary files would get large enough to fire them with (this is only true for Gavin, as Connor has no file yet).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tirade slows for a moment, just long enough for the onlookers to lose interest, Fowler sighs and asks, “Did you two really solve the cases from your </span>
  <em>
    <span>desk?”</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Connor nods, and Fowler suddenly looks ten years older than he is. He clearly weighs some options in his head, then says, “If you two didn’t do such a damn good job from your desk, I might be tempted to suspend you. However, I’m letting you off with an extra week of desk duty, instead, and you will be working together the entire time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks expectantly at Gavin, who raises no objections --  a stark contrast to the last time Fowler had said that. His eyes narrow in suspicion, but nothing is said about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t do too well,” Fowler says, “or I might be tempted to partner you two up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, Gavin says nothing, just smirks smugly at the reduced punishment for doing well. It’s obvious Gavin wants to gloat dearly and rub it in that Fowler had ignored them this entire time, but something keeps him back, thankfully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Desk duty is less than preferable, but with Gavin, now somewhat rid of his fear about Connor and his feelings, it will be more than okay and bearable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Over the next two weeks of excessive desk duty, Connor moves his chair to Gavin’s side of the desk and simply collects information internally with his systems that are designed to handle the load. They sort through three other cases of Manneson’s and every one they bring back with fresh leads and/or suspects leaves Fowler looking a little more regretful at ever hiring the man to the DPD and letting him get to Detective. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As it turns out, Ethel Roberts indeed is the woman who murdered her customers, when they threatened to rat her out to the hospital when she refused to lower her prices. She confessed pretty quickly, having held the guilt to it for years but still protective of it enough to assault a police officer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Gavin gathers up the physical file they’d created for the interrogation and moves to step out of the room, Connor exits the observation room, away from Hank, to meet him halfway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin stops in his tracks and stares, flustered, until dumbly saying, “Uh, hi,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stifling most of his humor that Gavin’s dumbfounded response generation, Connor parrots, “Uh, hi, to you, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His face flushes that brilliant scarlet Connor loves so much, and Connor moves smoothly to crowd Gavin’s space, skillfully threading his fingers between Gavin’s free knuckles, reveling in the way it just feels right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just as the observation room’s door slides open, surely Hank, Connor dips down to steal a solid kiss from Gavin, lips connecting for a long, few seconds. Gavin’s eyes widen and flick to Hank, but Connor tilts their head in a certain way which blocks Hank from Gavin’s view. A second longer that both feels eons long and a blink short, Connor pulls away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hank scrunches his eyes shut and massages the bridge of his nose. When he looks up, he looks like he’s begrudgingly accepted that Connor was right about Gavin, and says, “Congrats, I guess,” before walking away with a shake of his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A guffaw resounds through the hallway, and Connor looks back at Gavin to see him trying to contain a smattering of struck snickers. It’s clear Gavin is incredibly uncertain about… this whole thing, and Connor wanted to show that even Hank of all people can come to accept it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>While he keeps the approximated memories of the other Gavins in their own special file, he finds himself prioritizing the ones from </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> Gavin, all of the soft glances and fleeting touches. Those Gavins hadn’t been his -- he’d just been borrowing them for whatever short time he occupied that Connor. But </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>Gavin? Is all his, and his alone. The thought is exhilarating. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, Gavin has his ups and downs. A life of thinking love as inaccessible has its effects on people, and more than once has Gavin spat something rude or pushed past Connor on a bad day. All it takes is some patience, however, because sooner or later Gavin will be back to apologize in his odd, non-apology way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few days into their extra week of desk duty, they decide to take a case late into the night, and it’s nearly one AM when Gavin says, “I’m gonna take this home, you comin’ with?” like it’s the most natural and easy thing in the world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connor accepts, easily, and the car ride to Gavin’s apartment is comfortable with idle chatter about the case to fill the gaps. Gavin leads the both of them in, and immediately, Connor is struck by the strange sense of deja vu -- that he knows the source of, but that doesn’t make it any less odd. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A cat sprints out of Gavin’s bedroom and begins to thread lankly between Connor’s legs, meowing like Connor is the only one to feed her for the rest of her life. Bending over, Connor strokes her fur with a murmur of, “Hi Sweetie,”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She meows back, happy to have a hand to pet her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>From where he's currently taking his shoes off, Gavin says, “How’d you know her name?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I saw her collar in your photos,” Connor replies smoothly. While a lie, Gavin </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> have numerous photos of her on his phone that Connor may or may not have looked at while tapping into his calls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Creep,” Gavin jokes, sliding off his jacket and hanging it up. When Connor stands straight again, Gavin has a hand extended expectantly. “Your jacket,” he prompts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a smile small yet bright enough to blind, Connor says, “What a gentleman,” before handing it to him, sliding his shoes off next to Gavin’s boots soon after. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sweetie continues her quest to try and trip Connor by weaving through his ankles, even as he and Gavin settle onto the floor in front of the couch, legs sticking awkwardly out the other side of the coffee table on which Gavin’s laptop is placed. The cat settles onto Connor’s lap, somehow content with a stranger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a cat on his lap, Connor can’t scoot closer to Gavin without the risk of disturbing her -- but it takes no prompting whatsoever for Gavin to slide his laptop over and hesitantly sidle up next to Connor, his head coming to rest on his shoulder in a quiet little tilt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gavin may still be a little uncertain, but Connor is sure of one thing at least: he loves Gavin Reed, and Gavin Reed loves him back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tilting his own head over, Connor lays his cheek on the top of Gavin’s head, feeling like a star infinitely in a perfect orbit with the man to his side. And if right then, he whispers those three words, those three syllables to Gavin, and Gavin whispers them back, well. That’ll just have to be between them. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>SHE'S DONNNNNEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! thank you SO MUCH to everyone who's reading this fic, and I wanna thank you for your support, comments, kudos, bookmarks, other awesome stuff like that. I hope this final chapter was able to satisfy your itch, as it's 11,000 WORDS LONG! This fic was a huge exercise in self restraint and time management (but it did get iffy here at the end though LMAO) in that I had to restrain myself to simple vignette chapters i could write in a day, but somehow create an overarching story out of them. i'd like to think that generally, I succeeded! That being said, I am DEFINITELY going back to writing fics out completely and then posting them once they're finished, it's just easier on me and my poor, poor psyche (jk). plus, it lets me retcon without having to go back into the story and edit stuff people have already read. </p><p>Again -- Thank you so much for your time and patience, and thank you for reading!!! See you in the next one! :) &lt;3&lt;3&lt;3</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is my work for the #convinseptember challenge. I'm gonna try and get a chapter out every day for this, and I thought it'd be fun to try and make them a part of a continuous story. Hope you enjoy! </p><p>My tumblr is <a href="https://pestoast.tumblr.com/">pestoast!</a> :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>